LITTLE   CLASSICS 

EDITED  BY 

ROSSITER  JOHNSON 


STORIES  OF 
TRAGEDY 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

ftitoer£itie  presg  Cambri&ge 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1874,  BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO. 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


CONTENTS. 

THE    MUBDEBS    IN    THE    RUE 

MORGUE Edgar  Allan  Poe 

THE  LAUSON  TRAGEDY     .    .    .  j.  w.  Deforest  , 

THE  IRON  SHROUD William  Mudford 

THE   BELL-TOWER Herman  MelrilU 

THE  KATHAYAN  SLAVE    .    .    .  Emily  C.  Judson . 

THE   STORY  OF  LA  ROCHE     .      .  Henry  Mackenzie 


PAOK 

.  7 
.  56 
.  108 
.  128 
.  149 
.  165 


THE  VISION  OP  SUDDEN  DEATH     Thomas  De  quincey  .    .  182 


2082882 


THE   MURDERS   IN   THE   RUE   MORGUE. 

BY  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

"  What  song  the  Syrens  sang,  or  what  name  Achilles  assumed  when 
he  hid  himself  among  women,  although  puzzling  questions,  are  not  be- 
yond all  conjecture."  —  SIK  THOMAS  BEOWNE. 

JHE  mental  features  discoursed  of  as  the  analyti- 
cal are,  in  themselves,  but  little  susceptible  of 
analysis.  We  appreciate  them  only  in  their 
effects.  We  know  of  them,  among  other  things,  that  they 
are  always  to  their  possessor,  when  inordinately  possessed, 
a  source  of  the  liveliest  enjoyment.  As  the  strong  man 
exults  in  his  physical  ability,  delighting  in  such  exercises 
as  call  his  muscles  into  action,  so  glories  the  analyst  in 
moral  activity  which  disentangles.  He  derives  pleasure 
from  even  the  most  trivial  occupations  bringing  his  tal- 
ent into  play.  He  is  fond  of  enigmas,  of  conundrums, 
of  hieroglyphics ;  exhibiting  in  his  solutions  of  each  a 
degree  of  acumen  which  appears  to  the  ordinary  appre- 
hension preternatural.  His  results,  brought  about  by  the 
very  soul  and  essence  of  method,  have,  in  truth,  the  whole 
air  of  intuition. 
The  faculty  of  re-solution  is  possibly  much  invigorated 


8  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

by  mathematical  study,  and  especially  by  that  highest 
branch  of  it  which,  unjustly,  and  merely  on  account  of 
its  retrograde  operations,  has  been  called,  as  if  par  excel- 
lence, analysis.  Yet  to  calculate  is  not  in  itself  to  analyze. 
A  chess-player,  for  example,  does  the  one,  without  effort 
at  the  other.  It  follows  that  the  game  of  chess,  in  its 
effects  upon  mental  character,  is  greatly  misunderstood.  I 
am  not  now  writing  a  treatise,  but  simply  prefacing  a 
somewhat  peculiar  narrative  by  observations  very  much 
at  random  ;  I  will,  therefore,  take  occasion  to  assert  that 
the  higher  powers  of  the  reflective  intellect  are  more  de- 
cidedly and  more  usefully  tasked  by  the  unostentatious 
game  of  draughts  than  by  all  the  elaborate  frivolity  of 
chess.  In  this  latter,  where  the  pieces  have  different 
and  bizarre  motions,  with  various  and  variable  values, 
what  is  only  complex  is  mistaken  (a  not  unusual  error) 
for  what  is  profound.  The  attention  is  here  called  pow- 
erfully into  play.  If  it  flag  for  an  instant,  an  oversight 
is  committed,  resulting  in  injury  or  defeat.  The  possible 
moves  being  not  only  manifold,  but  involute,  the  chances 
of  such  oversights  are  multiplied ;  and  in  nine  cases  out 
of  ten,  it  is  the  more  concentrative  rather  than  the  more 
acute  player  who  conquers.  In  draughts,  on  the  contra- 
ry, where  the  moves  are  unique  and  have  but  little  varia- 
tion, the  probabilities  of  inadvertence  are  diminished,  and 
the  mere  attention  being  left  comparatively  unemployed, 
what  advantages  are  obtained  by  either  party  are  obtained 
by  superior  acumen.  To  be  less  abstract :  Let  us  sup- 
pose a  game  of  draughts  where  the  pieces  are  reduced  to 
four  kings,  and  where,  of  course,  no  oversight  is  to  be 
expected.  It  is  obvious  that  here  the  victory  can  be 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.     9 

decided  (the  players  being  at  all  equal)  only  by  some 
recherche  movement,  the  result  of  some  strong  exertion 
of  the  intellect.  Deprived  of  ordinary  resources,  the 
analyst  throws  himself  into  the  spirit  of  his  opponent, 
identifies  himself  therewith,  and  not  unfrequently  sees 
thus,  at  a  glance,  the  sole  methods  (sometimes  indeed 
absurdly  simple  ones)  by  which  he  may  seduce  into  error 
or  hurry  into  miscalculation. 

Whist  has  long  been  noted  for  its  influence  upon  what 
is  termed  the  calculating  power ;  and  men  of  the  highest 
order  of  intellect  have  been  known  to  take  an  apparently 
unaccountable  delight  in  it,  while  eschewing  chess  as 
frivolous.  Beyond  doubt  there  is  nothing  of  a  similar 
nature  so  greatly  tasking  the  faculty  of  analysis.  The 
best  chess-player  in  Christendom  may  be  little  more  than 
the  best  player  of  chess  ;  but  proficiency  in  whist  implies 
capacity  for  success  in  all  these  more  important  under- 
takings where  mind  struggles  with  mind.  When  I  say 
proficiency,  I  mean  that  perfection  in  the  game  which  in- 
cludes a  comprehension  of  all  the  sources  whence  legiti- 
mate advantage  may  be  derived.  These  are  not  only 
manifold,  but  multiform,  and  lie  frequently  among  recesses 
of  thought  altogether  inaccessible  to  the  ordinary  un- 
derstanding. To  observe  attentively  is  to  remember 
distinctly ;  and,  so  far,  the  concentrative  chess-player 
will  do  very  well  at  whist ;  while  the  rules  of  Hoyle 
(themselves  based  upon  the  mere  mechanism  of  the  game) 
are  sufficiently  and  generally  comprehensible.  Thus  to 
have  a  retentive  memory,  and  to  proceed  by  "  the  book," 
are  points  commonly  regarded  as  the  sum  total  of  good 
playing.  But  it  is  in  matters  beyond  the  limits  of  mere 
1* 


10  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

rule  that  the  skill  of  the  analyst  is  evinced.  He  makes 
in  silence  a  host  of  observations  and  inferences.  So,  per- 
haps, do  his  companions ;  and  the  difference  in  the  ex- 
tent of  the  information  obtained  lies  not  so  much  in  the 
validity  of  the  inference  as  in  the  quality  of  the  observa- 
tion. The  necessary  knowledge  is  that  of  what  to  ob- 
serve. Our  player  confines  himself  not  at  all ;  nor,  because 
the  game  is  the  object,  does  he  reject  deductions  from 
things  external  to  the  game.  He  examines  the  counte- 
nance of  his  partner,  comparing  it  carefully  with  that  of 
each  of  his  opponents.  He  considers  the  mode  of  assort- 
ing the  cards  in  each  hand;  often  counting  trump  by 
trump,  and  honor  by  honor,  through  the  glances  bestowed 
by  their  holders  upon  each.  He  notes  every  variation  of 
face  as  the  play  progresses,  gathering  a  fund  of  thought 
from  the  differences  in  the  expression  of  certainty,  of 
surprise,  of  triumph,  or  chagrin.  From  the  manner  of 
gathering  up  a  trick  he  judges  whether  the  person  taking 
it  can  make  another  in  the  suit.  He  recognizes  what  is 
played  through  feint,  by  the  air  with  which  it  is  thrown 
upon  the  table.  A  casual  or  inadvertent  word ;  the  acci- 
dental dropping  or  turning  of  a  card,  with  the  accompany- 
ing anxiety  or  carelessness  in  regard  to  its  concealment ; 
the  counting  of  the  tricks,  with  the  order  of  their  arrange- 
ment ;  embarrassment,  hesitation,  eagerness,  or  trepida- 
tion, —  all  afford,  to  his  apparently  intuitive  perception, 
indications  of  the  true  state  of  affairs.  The  first  two  or 
three  rounds  having  been  played,  he  is  in  full  possession 
of  the  contents  of  each  hand,  and  thenceforward  puts 
down  his  cards  with  as  absolute  a  precision  of  purpose  aa 
if  the  rest  of  the  party  had  turned  outward  the  faces  of 
their  own. 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.    11 

The  analytical  power  should  not  be  confounded  with 
simple  ingenuity  ;  for  while  the  analyst  is  necessarily  in- 
genious, the  ingenious  man  is  often  remarkably  incapable 
of  analysis.  The  constructive  or  combining  power,  by 
which  ingenuity  is  usually  manifested,  and  to  which  the 
phrenologists  (I  believe  erroneously)  have  assigned  a  sep- 
arate organ,  supposing  it  a  primitive  faculty,  has  been  so 
frequently  seen  in  those  whose  intellect  bordered  other- 
wise upon  idiocy,  as  to  have  attracted  general  observation 
among  writers  on  morals.  Between  ingenuity  and  the 
analytic  ability  there  exists  a  difference  far  greater,  indeed, 
than  that  between  the  fancy  and  the  imagination,  but  of 
a  character  very  strictly  analogous.  It  will  be  found,  in 
fact,  that  the  ingenious  are  always  fanciful,  and  the  truly 
imaginative  never  otherwise  than  analytic. 

The  narrative  which  follows  will  appear  to  the  reader 
somewhat  in  the  light  of  a  commentary  upon  the  proposi- 
tions just  advanced. 

Residing  in  Paris  during  the  spring  and  part  of  the 
summer  of  18 — ,  I  there  became  acquainted  with  a 
Monsieur  C.  Auguste  Dupin.  This  young  gentleman 
was  of  an  excellent,  indeed  of  an  illustrious  family,  but, 
by  a  variety  of  untoward  events,  had  been  reduced  to  such 
poverty  that  the  energy  of  his  character  succumbed  be- 
neath it,  and  he  ceased  to  bestir  himself  in  the  world,  or 
to  care  for  the  retrieval  of  his  fortunes.  By  courtesy 
of  his  creditors,  there  still  remained  in  his  possession  a 
small  remnant  of  his  patrimony ;  and,  upon  the  income 
arising  from  this,  he  managed,  by  means  of  a  rigorous 
economy,  to  procure  the  necessaries  of  life,  without 
troubling  himself  about  its  superfluities.  Books,  in- 


12  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

deed,  were  his  sole  luxuries,  and  in  Paris  these  are  easily 
obtained. 

Our  first  meeting  was  at  an  obscure  library  in  the  Rue 
Montmartre,  where  the  accident  of  our  both  being  in 
search  of  the  same  very  rare  and  very  remarkable  volume 
brought  us  into  closer  communion.  We  saw  each  other 
again  and  again.  I  was  deeply  interested  in  the  little 
family  history  which  he  detailed  to  me  with  all  that  can- 
dor a  Frenchman  indulges  whenever  mere  self  is  the 
theme.  I  was  astonished,  too,  at  the  vast  extent  of  his 
reading ;  and,  above  all,  I  felt  my  soul  enkindled  within 
me  by  the  wild  fervor  and  the  vivid  freshness  of  his 
imagination.  Seeking  in  Paris  the  objects  I  then  sought, 
I  felt  that  the  society  of  such  a  man  would  be  to  me  a 
treasure  beyond  price ;  and  this  feeling  I  frankly  confided 
to  him.  It  was  at  length  arranged  that  we  should  live 
together  during  my  stay  in  the  city  ;  and  as  my  worldly 
circumstances  were  somewhat  less  embarrassed  than  his 
own,  I  was  permitted  to  be  at  the  expense  of  renting, 
and  furnishing  in  a  style  which  suited  the  rather  fantastic 
gloom  of  our  common  temper,  a  time-eaten  and  grotesque 
mansion,  long  deserted  through  superstitions  into  which 
we  did  not  inquire,  and  tottering  to  its  fall  in  a  retired 
and  desolate  portion  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain. 

Had  the  routine  of  our  life  at  this  place  been  known  to 
the  world,  we  should  have  been  regarded  as  madmen,  — 
although,  perhaps,  as  madmen  of  a  harmless  nature. 
Our  seclusion  was  perfect.  We  admitted  no  visitors. 
Indeed,  the  locality  of  our  retirement  had  been  carefully 
kept  a  secret  from  my  own  former  associates ;  and  it 
had  been  many  years  since  Dupin  had  ceased  to  know 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.    13 

or  be  known  in  Paris.  We  existed  within  ourselves 
alone. 

It  was  a  freak  of  fancy  in  my  friend  (for  what  else 
shall  I  call  it  ?)  to  be  enamored  of  the  night  for  her  own 
sake ;  and  into  this  bizarrerie,  as  into  all  his  others,  I 
quietly  fell ;  giving  myself  up  to  his  wild  whims  with  a 
perfect  abandon.  The  sable  divinity  would  not  herself 
dwell  with  us  always ;  but  we  could  counterfeit  her  pres- 
ence. At  the  first  dawn  of  the  morning  we  closed  all  the 
massy  shutters  of  our  old  building ;  lighted  a  couple  of 
tapers  which,  strongly  perfumed,  threw  out  only  the 
ghastliest  and  feeblest  of  rays.  By  the  aid  of  these  we 
then  busied  our  souls  in  dreams,  —  reading,  writing,  or 
conversing,  until  warned  by  the  clock  of  the  advent  of 
the  true  Darkness.  Then  we  sallied  forth  into  the  streets, 
arm  and  arm,  continuing  the  topics  of  the  day,  or  roaming 
far  and  wide  until  a  late  hour,  seeking,  amid  the  wild 
lights  and  shadows  of  the  populous  city,  that  infinity  of 
mental  excitement  which  quiet  observation  can  afford. 

At  such  times  I  could  not  help  remarking  and  admir- 
ing (although  from  his  rich  ideality  I  had  been  prepared 
to  expect  it)  a  peculiar  analytic  ability  in  Dupin.  He 
seemed,  too,  to  take  an  eager  delight  in  its  exercise,  —  if 
not  exactly  in  its  display,  —  and  did  not  hesitate  to  con- 
fess the  pleasure  thus  derived.  He  boasted  to  me,  with 
a  low  chuckling  laugh,  that  most  men,  in  respect  to  him- 
self, wore  windows  in  their  bosoms,  and  was  wont  to  fol- 
low up  such  assertions  by  direct  and  very  startling  proofs 
of  his  intimate  knowledge  of  my  own.  His  manner  at 
these  moments  was  frigid  and  abstract;  his  eyes  were 
vacant  in  expression ;  while  his  voice,  usually  a  rich  tenor, 


14  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

rose  into  a  treble  which  would  have  sounded  petulantly 
but  for  the  deliberateness  and  entire  distinctness  of  the 
enunciation.  Observing  him  in  these  moods,  I  often  dwelt 
meditatively  upon  the  old  philosophy  of  the  Bi-Part  Soul, 
and  amused  myself  with  the  fancy  of  a  double  Dupin,  — 
the  creative  and  the  resolvent. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed,  from  what  I  have  just  said, 
that  I  am  detailing  any  mystery,  or  penning  any  romance. 
What  I  have  described  in  the  Frenchman  was  merely  the 
result  of  an  excited,  or  perhaps  of  a  diseased  intelli- 
gence. But  of  the  character  of  his  remarks  at  the  peri- 
ods in  question  an  example  will  best  convey  the  idea. 

We  were  strolling  one  night  down  a  long  dirty  street, 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  Palais  Royal.  Being  both,  appar- 
ently, occupied  with  thought,  neither  of  us  had  spoken  a 
syllable  for  fifteen  minutes  at  least.  All  at  once  Dupin 
broke  forth  with  these  words  :  — 

"  He  is  a  very  little  fellow,  that 's  true,  and  would  do 
better  for  the  Theatre  des  Varietes" 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  that,"  I  replied  unwitting- 
ly, and  not  at  first  observing  (so  much  had  I  been 
absorbed  in  reflection)  the  extraordinary  manner  in 
which  the  speaker  had  chimed  in  with  my  meditations. 
In  an  instant  afterward  I  recollected  myself,  and  my 
astonishment  was  profound. 

"Dupin,"  said  I,  gravely,  "this  is  beyond  my  com- 
prehension. I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  I  am  amazed, 
and  can  scarcely  credit  my  senses.  How  was  it  possi- 
ble you  should  know  I  was  thinking  of — "  Here  I 
paused,  to  ascertain  beyond  a  doubt  whether  he  really 
knew  of  whom  I  thought. 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.   15 

—  "of  Chantilly,"  said  he;  "why  do  you  pause? 
You  were  remarking  to  yourself  that  his  diminutive  figure 
unfitted  him  for  tragedy." 

This  was  precisely  what  had  formed  the  subject  of  my 
reflections.  Chantilly  was  a  quondam  cobbler  of  the 
Rue  St.  Denis,  who,  becoming  stage-mad,  had  attempted 
the  role  of  Xerxes,  in  Crebillon's  tragedy  so  called,  and 
been  notoriously  Pasquinaded  for  his  pains. 

"  Tell  me,  for  Heaven's  sake,"  I  exclaimed,  "  the 
method  —  if  method  there  is  —  by  which  you  have  been 
enabled  to  fathom  my  soul  in  this  matter."  In  fact,  I 
was  even  more  startled  than  I  would  have  been  willing 
to  express. 

"  It  was  the  fruiterer,"  replied  my  friend,  "  who  brought 
you  to  the  conclusion  that  the  mender  of  soles  was  not 
of  sufficient  height  for  Xerxes  et  id  genus  omne." 

"  The  fruiterer !  —  you  astonish  me,  —  I  know  no 
fruiterer  whomsoever." 

"  The  man  who  ran  up  against  you  as  we  entered 
the  street :  it  may  have  been  fifteen  minutes  ago." 

I  now  remembered  that,  in  fact,  a  fruiterer,  carry- 
ing upon  his  head  a  large  basket  of  apples,  had  nearly 
thrown  me  down,  by  accident,  as  we  passed  from  the 

Rue  C into  the  thoroughfare  where  we  stood  ;  but 

what  this  had  to  do  with  Chantilly  I  could  not  possibly 
understand. 

There  was  not  a  particle  of  charlatdnerie  about  Du- 
piu.  "  I  will  explain,"  he  said,  "  and  that  you  may 
comprehend  all  clearly,  we  will  first  retrace  the  course 
of  your  meditations,  from  the  moment  in  which  I  spoke 
to  you  until  that  of  the  rencontre  with  the  fruiterer  in 


16  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

question.  The  larger  links  of  the  chain  run  thus, — 
Chantilly,  Orion,  Dr.  Nichols,  Epicurus,  stereotomy,  the 
street  stones,  the  fruiterer." 

There  are  few  persons  who  have  not,  at  some  period 
of  their  lives,  amused  themselves  in  retracing  the  steps 
by  which  particular  conclusions  of  their  own  minds  have 
been  attained.  The  occupation  is  often  full  of  interest ; 
and  he  who  attempts  it  for  the  first  time  is  astonished  by 
the  apparently  illimitable  distance  and  incoherence  be- 
tween the  starting-point  and  the  goal.  What,  then, 
must  have  been  my  amazement  when  I  heard  the  French- 
man speak  what  he  had  just  spoken,  and  when  I  could 
not  help  acknowledging  that  he  had  spoken  the  truth ! 
He  continued :  — 

"  We  had  been  talking  of  horses,  if  I  remember  aright, 

just  before  leaving  the  Rue  C .  This  was  the  last 

subject  we  discussed.  As  we  crossed  into  this  street,  a 
fruiterer,  with  a  large  basket  upon  his  head,  brushing 
quickly  past  us,  thrust  you  upon  a  pile  of  paving-stones 
collected  at  a  spot  where  the  causeway  is  undergoing 
repair.  You  stepped  upon  one  of  the  loose  fragments, 
slipped,  slightly  strained  your  ankle,  appeared  vexed  or 
sulky,  muttered  a  few  words,  turned  to  look  at  the  pile, 
and  then  proceeded  in  silence.  I  was  not  particularly 
attentive  to  what  you  did ;  but  observation  has  become 
with  me,  of  late,  a  species  of  necessity. 

"  You  kept  your  eyes  upon  the  ground,  —  glancing, 
with  a  petulant  expression,  at  the  holes  and  ruts  in  the 
pavement  (so  that  I  saw  you  were  still  thinking  of  the 
stones),  until  we  reached  the  little  alley  called  Lamar- 
tine,  which  has  been  paved,  by  way  of  experiment,  witl> 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.   17 

the  overlapping  and  riveted  blocks.  Here  your  counte- 
nance brightened  up,  and  perceiving  your  lips  move,  I 
could  not  doubt  that  you  murmured  the  word  '  stereoto- 
my,'  a  term  very  affectedly  applied  to  this  species  of  pave- 
ment. I  knew  that  you  could  not  say  to  yourself  '  stere- 
otomy,'  without  being  brought  to  think  of  atomies,  and 
thus  of  the  theories  of  Epicurus ;  and  since,  when  we 
discussed-  this  subject  not  very  long  ago,  I  mentioned  to 
you  how  singularly,  yet  with  how  little  notice,  the  vague 
guesses  of  that  noble  Greek  had  met  with  confirmation 
in  the  late  nebular  cosmogony,  I  felt  that  you  could  not 
avoid  casting  your  eyes  upward  to  the  great  nebula  in 
Orion,  and  I  certainly  expected  that  you  would  do  so. 
You  did  look  up  ;  and  I  was  now  assured  that  I  had  cor- 
rectly followed  your  steps.  But  in  that  bitter  tirade 
upon  Chantilly,  which  appeared  in  yesterday's  Mvse'e, 
the  satirist,  making  some  disgraceful  allusions  to  the 
cobbler's  change  of  name  upon  assuming  the  buskin, 
quoted  a  Latin  line  about  which  we  have  often  con- 
versed. I  mean  the  line, 

'  Perdidit  antiquum  litera  prima  sornnn.' 

I  had  told  you  that  this  was  in  reference  to  Orion,  for- 
merly written  Urion ;  and,  from  certain  pungencies  con- 
nected with  this  explanation,  I  was  aware  that  you 
could  not  have  forgotten  it.  It  was  clear,  therefore,  that 
you  would  not  fail  to  combine  the  two  ideas  of  Orion 
and  Chantilly.  That  you  did  combine  them  I  saw  by 
the  character  of  the  smile  which  passed  over  your  lips. 
You  thought  of  the  poor  cobbler's  immolation.  So  far, 
you  had  been  stooping  in  your  gait ;  but  now  I  saw  you 


18  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

draw  yourself  up  to  your  full  height.  I  was  then  sure 
that  you  reflected  upon  the  diminutive  figure  of  Chantilly. 
At  this  point  I  interrupted  your  meditations  to  remans 
that  as,  in  fact,  he  was  a  very  little  fellow,  —  that  Chan- 
tilly, —  he  would  do  better  at  the  Theatre  des  Varietes." 

Not  long  after  this,  we  were  looking  over  an  evening 
edition  of  the  Gazette  des  Tribunaux,  when  the  follow- 
ing paragraphs  arrested  our  attention :  — 

"  EXTRAORDINARY  MURDERS.  —  This  morning,  about 
three  o'clock,  the  inhabitants  of  the  Quartier  St.  Rocb 
•were  aroused  from  sleep  by  a  succession  of  terrific 
shrieks,  issuing,  apparently,  from  the  fourth  story  of  » 
house  in  the  Rue  Morgue,  known  to  be  in  the  sole  occu- 
pancy of  one  Madame  L'Espanaye,  and  her  daughter, 
Mademoiselle  Camille  L'Espanaye.  After  some  delay, 
occasioned  by  a  fruitless  attempt  to  procure  admission 
in  the  usual  manner,  the  gateway  was  broken  in  with  a 
crow-bar,  and  eight  or  ten  of  the  neighbors  entered,  ac- 
companied by  two  gendarmes.  By  this  time  the  cries 
had  ceased ;  but,  as  the  party  rushed  up  the  first  flight 
of  stairs,  two  or  more  rough  voices,  in  angry  contention, 
were  distinguished,  and  seemed  to  proceed  from  the 
upper  part  of  the  house.  As  the  second  landing  was 
reached,  these  sounds,  also,  had  ceased,  and  everything 
remained  perfectly  quiet.  The  party  spread  themselves, 
and  hurried  from  room  to  room.  Upon  arriving  at  a 
large  back  chamber  in  the  fourth  story  (the  door  of 
which,  being  found  locked,  with  the  key  inside,  was 
forced  open),  a  spectacle  presented  itself  which  struck 
every  one  present  not  less  with  horror  than  with  aston- 
ishment. 


THE  MUEDEES  IN  THE  EUE  MOEGUE.    19 

"The  apartment  was  in  the  wildest  disorder, — the 
furniture  broken  and  thrown  about  in  all  directions. 
There  was  only  one  bedstead ;  and  from  this  the  bed  had 
been  removed,  and  thrown  into  the  middle  of  the  floor. 
On  a  chair  lay  a  razor  besmeared  with  blood.  On  the 
hearth  were  two  or  three  long  and  thick  tresses  of  gray 
human  hair,  also  dabbled  in  blood,  and  seeming  to  have 
been  pulled  out  by  the  roots.  Upon  the  floor  were 
found  four  Napoleons,  an  ear-ring  of  topaz,  three  large 
silver  spoons,  three  smaller  of  metal  d'Alger,  and  two 
bags,  containing  nearly  four  thousand  francs  in  gold. 
The  drawers  of  a  bureau,  which  stood  in  one  corner, 
were  open,  and  had  been,  apparently,  rifled,  although 
many  articles  still  remained  in  them.  A  small  iron  safe 
was  discovered  under  the  bed  (not  under  the  bedstead). 
It  was  open,  with  the  key  still  in  the  door.  It  had  no 
contents  beyond  a  few  old  letters,  and  other  papers  of 
little  consequence. 

"  Of  Madame  L'Espanaye  no  traces  were  here  seen ; 
but  an  unusual  quantity  of  soot  being  observed  in  the 
fireplace,  a  search  was  made  in  the  chimney,  and  (horrible 
to  relate  !)  the  corpse  of  the  daughter,  head  downward, 
was  dragged  therefrom,  it  having  been  thus  forced  up 
the  narrow  aperture  for  a  considerable  distance.  The 
body  was  quite  warm.  Upon  examining  it,  many  excori- 
ations were  perceived,  no  doubt  occasioned  by  the  vio- 
lence with  which  it  had  been  thrust  up  and  disengaged. 
Upon  the  face  were  many  severe  scratches,  and  upon  the 
throat  dark  bruises  and  deep  indentations  of  finger-nails, 
as  if  the  deceased  had  been  throttled  to  death. 

"  After  a  thorough  investigation  of  every  portion  of 


20  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

the  house  without  further  discovery,  the  party  made  its 
way  into  a  small  paved  yard  in  the  rear  of  the  building, 
where  lay  the  corpse  of  the  old  lady,  with  her  throat  so 
entirely  cut  that,  upon  an  attempt  to  raise  her,  the  head 
fell  off.  The  body,  as  well  as  the  head,  was  fearfully 
mutilated,  the  former  so  much  so  as  scarcely  to  retain 
any  semblance  of  humanity. 

"  To  this  horrible  mystery  there  is  not  as  yet,  we 
believe,  the  slightest  clew." 

The  next  day's  paper  had  these  additional  particu- 
lars:— 

"  THE  TRAGEDY  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.  —  Many  indi- 
viduals have  been  examined  in  relation  to  this  most 
extraordinary  and  frightful  affair  "  [the  word  affaire  has 
not  yet,  in  France,  that  levity  of  import  which  it  conveys 
with  us],  "  but  nothing  whatever  has  transpired  to  throw 
light  upon  it.  We  give  below  all  the  material  testimony 
elicited. 

"  Pauline  Dubourg,  laundress,  deposes  that  she  has 
known  both  the  deceased  for  three  years,  having  washed 
for  them  during  that  period.  The  old  lady  and  her 
daughter  seemed  on  good  terms,  —  very  affectionate 
towards  each  other.  They  were  excellent  pay.  Could 
not  speak  in  regard  to  their  mode  or  means  of  living. 
Believed  that  Madame  L.  told  fortunes  for  a  living. 
Was  reputed  to  have  money  put  by.  Never  met  any 
persons  in  the  house  when  she  called  for  the  clothes  or 
took  them  home.  Was  sure  that  they  had  no  servant  in 
employ.  There  appeared  to  be  no  furniture  in  any  part 
of  the  building,  except  in  the  fourth  story. 

"Pierre  Moreau,  tobacconist,   deposes  that  he  has 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.   21 

been  in  the  habit  of  selling  small  quantities  of  tobacco 
and  snuff  to  Madame  L'Espanaye  for  nearly  four  years. 
Was  born  in  the  neighborhood,  and  has  always  resided 
there.  The  deceased  and  her  daughter  had  occupied  the 
house  in  which  the  corpses  were  found  for  more  than 
six  years.  It  was  formerly  occupied  by  a  jeweller,  who 
under-let  the  upper  rooms  to  various  persons.  The 
house  was  the  property  of  Madame  L.  She  became  dis- 
satisfied with  the  abuse  of  the  premises  by  her  tenant, 
and  moved  into  them  herself,  refusing  to  let  any  portion. 
The  old  lady  was  childish.  Witness  had  seen  the  daugh- 
ter some  five  or  six  times  during  the  six  years.  The  two 
lived  an  exceedingly  retired  life,  —  were  reputed  to  have 
money.  Had  heard  it  said  among  the  neighbors  that 
Madame  L.  told  fortunes ;  did  not  believe  it.  Had 
never  seen  any  person  enter  the  door  except  the  old  lady 
and  her  daughter,  a  porter  once  or  twice,  and  a  physi- 
cian some  eight  or  ten  times. 

"  Many  other  persons,  neighbors,  gave  evidence  to  the 
same  effect.  No  one  was  spoken  of  as  frequenting  the 
house.  It  was  not  known  whether  there  were  any  living 
connections  of  Madame  L.  and  her  daughter.  The  shut- 
ters of  the  front  windows  were  seldom  opened.  Those 
in  the  rear  were  always  closed,  with  the  exception  of  the 
large  back  room,  fourth  story.  The  house  was  a  good 
house,  not  very  old. 

"  Isidore  Muset,  gendarme,  deposes  that  he  was  called 
to  the  house  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
found  some  twenty  or  thirty  persons  at  the  gateway, 
endeavoring  to  gain  admittance.  Forced  it  open,  at 
length,  with  a  bayonet,  —  not  with  a  crow-bar.  Had  but 


22  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

little  difficulty  in  getting  it  open,  on  account  of  its  being 
a  double  or  folding  gate,  and  bolted  neither  at  bottom 
nor  top.  The  shrieks  were  continued  until  the  gate  was 
forced,  and  then  suddenly  ceased.  They  seemed  to  be 
screams  of  some  person  (or  persons)  in  great  agony; 
were  loud  and  drawn  out,  not  short  and  quick.  Wit- 
ness led  the  way  up  stairs.  Upon  reaching  the  first 
landing,  heard  two  voices  in  loud  and  angry  contention ; 
the  one  a  gruff  voice,  the  other  much  shriller,  —  a  very- 
strange  voice.  Could  distinguish  some  words  of  the  for- 
mer, which  was  that  of  a  Frenchman.  Was  positive  that 
it  was  not  a  woman's  voice.  Could  distinguish  the 
words  sacre  and  diable.  The  shrill  voice  was  that  of  a 
foreigner.  Could  not  be  sure  whether  it  was  the  voice 
of  a  man  or  of  a  woman.  Could  not  make  out  what  was 
said,  but  believed  the  language  to  be  Spanish.  The 
state  of  the  room  and  of  the  bodies  was  described  by  this 
witness  as  we  described  them  yesterday. 

"  Henri  Duval,  a  neighbor,  and  by  trade  a  silver- 
smith, deposes  that  he  was  one  of  the  party  who  first 
entered  the  house.  Corroborates  the  testimony  of  Mu- 
set  in  general.  As  soon  as  they  forced  an  entrance, 
they  reclosed  the  door  to  keep  out  the  crowd,  which  col- 
lected very  fast,  notwithstanding  the  lateness  of  the  hour. 
The  shrill  voice,  this  witness  thinks,  was  that  of  an  Ital- 
ian. Was  certain  it  was  not  French.  Could  not  be 
sure  that  it  was  a  man's  voice.  It  might  have  been  a 
woman's.  Was  not  acquainted  with  the  Italian  lan- 
guage. Could  not  distinguish  the  words,  but  was  con- 
vinced by  the  intonation  that  the  speaker  was  an  Italian. 
Knew  Madame  L.  and  her  daughter.  Had  conversed 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.   23 

«rith  both  frequently.  Was  sure  that  the  shrill  voice 
was  not  that  of  either  of  the  deceased. 

" Odenheimer,  restaurateur.  This  witness  volun- 
teered his  testimony.  Not  speaking  French,  was  exam- 
ined through  an  interpreter^  Is  a  native  of  Amsterdam. 
Was  passing  the  house  at  the  time  of  the  shrieks.  They 
lasted  for  several  minutes,  —  probably  ten.  They  were 
long  and  loud,  very  awful  and  distressing.  Was  one  of 
those  who  entered  the  building.  Corroborated  the  pre- 
vious evidence  in  every  respect  but  one.  Was  sure  that 
the  shrill  voice  was  that  of  a  man,  —  of  a  Frenchman. 
Could  not  distinguish  the  words  uttered.  They  were 
loud  and  quick,  unequal,  spoken  apparently  in  fear  as 
well  as  in  anger.  The  voice  was  harsh,  —  not  so  much 
shrill  as  harsh.  Could  not  call  it  a  shrill  voice.  The 
gruff  voice  said  repeatedly,  sacre,  diable,  and  once  man 
Dieu. 

"  Jules  Mignaud,  banker,  of  the  firm  of  Mignaud  et 
Fils,  Rue  Deloraine.  Is  the  elder  Mignaud.  Madame 
L'Espanaye  had  some  property.  Had  opened  an  account 

with  his  banking-house  in  the  spring  of  the  year 

(eight  years  previously).  Made  frequent  deposits  in 
small  sums.  Had  checked  for  nothing  until  the  third 
day  before  her  death,  when  she  took  out  in  person  the 
sum  of  4,000  francs.  This  sum  was  paid  in  gold,  and  a 
clerk  sent  home  with  the  money. 

"  Adolphe  Le  Bon,  clerk  to  Mignaud  et  Fils,  deposes 
that  on  the  day  in  question,  about  noon,  he  accompanied 
Madame  L'Espanaye  to  her  residence  with  the  4,000 
francs,  put  up  in  two  bags.  Upon  the  door  being 
opened,  Mademoiselle  L.  appeared,  and  took  from  his 


24  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

hands  one  of  the  bags,  while  the  old  lady  relieved  him  of 
the  other.  He  then  bowed  and  departed.  Did  not  see 
any  person  in  the  street  at  the  time.  It  is  a  by-street, 
very  lonely. 

"  William  Bird,  tailor,  deposes  that  he  was  one  of  the 
party  who  entered  the  house.  Is  an  Englishman.  Has 
lived  in  Paris  two  years.  Was  one  of  the  first  to  ascend 
the  stairs.  Heard  the  voices  in  contention.  The  gruff 
voice  was  that  of  a  Frenchman.  Could  make  out  several 
words,  but  cannot  now  remember  all.  Heard  distinctly 
sacre  and  mon  Dieu.  There  was  a  sound  at  the  moment 
as  if  of  several  persons  struggling,  —  a  scraping  and 
scuffling  sound.  The  shrill  voice  was  very  loud,  —  louder 
than  the  gruff  one.  Is  sure  that  it  was  not  the  voice 
of  an  Englishman.  Appeared  to  be  that  of  a  German. 
Might  have  been  a  woman's  voice.  Does  not  under- 
stand German. 

"  Four  of  the  above-named  witnesses,  being  recalled, 
deposed  that  the  door  of  the  chamber  in  which  was 
found  the  body  of  Mademoiselle  L.  was  locked  on  the 
inside  when  the  party  reached  it.  Everything  was  per- 
fectly silent,  —  no  groans  or  noises  of  any  kind.  Upon 
forcing  the  door  no  person  was  seen.  The  windows, 
both  of  the  back  and  front  room,  were  down,  and  firmly 
fastened  from  within.  A  door  between  the  two  rooms 
was  closed,  but  not  locked.  The  door  leading  from  the 
front  room  into  the  passage  was  locked,  with  the  key  on 
the  inside.  A  small  room  in  the  front  of  the  house,  on 
the  fourth  story,  at  the  head  of  the  passage,  was  open, 
the  door  being  ajar.  This  room  was  crowded  with  old 
beds,  boxes,  and  so  forth.  These  were  carefully  removed 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.    25 

and  searched.  There  was  not  an  inch  of  any  portion  of 
the  house  which  was  not  carefully  -searched.  Sweeps 
were  sent  up  and  down  the  chimneys.  The  house  was  a 
four-story  one,  with  garrets  (mansardes).  A.  trap-door 
on  the  roof  was  nailed  down  very  securely,  —  did  not 
appear  to  have  been  opened  for  years.  The  time  elaps- 
ing between  the  hearing  of  the  voices  in  contention  and 
the  breaking  open  of  the  room  door  was  variously  stated 
by  the  witnesses.  Some  made  it  as  short  as  three  min- 
utes, some  as  long  as  five.  The  door  was  opened  with 
difficulty. 

"  Alfonzo  Garcio,  undertaker,  deposes  that  he  resides 
in  the  Rue  Morgue.  Is  a  native  of  Spain.  Was  one  of 
the  party  who  entered  the  house.  Did  not  proceed  up 
stairs.  Is  nervous,  and  was  apprehensive  of  the  conse- 
quences of  agitation.  Heard  the  voices  in  contention. 
The  gruff  voice  was  that  of  a  Frenchman.  Could  not 
distinguish  what  was  said.  The  shrill  voice  was  that  of 
an  Englishman,  —  is  sure  of  this.  Does  not  understand 
the  English  language,  but  judges  by  the  intonation. 

"  Alberto  Montani,  confectioner,  deposes  that  he  was 
among  the  first  to  ascend  the  stairs.  Heard  the  voices 
in  question.  The  gruff  voice  was  that  of  a  Frenchman. 
Distinguished  several  words.  The  speaker  appeared  to 
be  expostulating.  Could  not  make  out  the  words  of  the 
shrill  voice.  Spoke  quick  and  unevenly.  Thinks  it  the 
voice  of  a  Russian.  Corroborates  the  general  testimony. 
Is  an  Italian.  Never  conversed  with  a  native  of  Russia. 

"  Several  witnesses,  recalled,  here  testified  that  the 
chimneys  of  all  the  rooms  on  the  fourth  story  were  too 
narrow  to  admit  the  passage  of  a  human  being.  By 

VOL.  III.  2 


26  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

'  sweeps '  were  meant  cylindrical  sweeping-brushes,  such 
as  are  employed  by  those  who  clean  chimneys.  These 
brushes  were  passed  up  and  down  every  flue  in  the  house. 
There  is  no  back  passage  by  which  any  one  could  have 
descended  wliile  the  party  proceeded  up  stairs.  The 
body  of  Mademoiselle  L'Espanaye  was  so  firmly  wedged 
in  the  chimney  that  it  could  not  be  got  down  until  four 
or  five  of  the  party  united  their  strength. 

"  Paul  Dumas,  physician,  deposes  that  he  was  called 
to  view  the  bodies  about  daybreak.  They  were  both 
then  lying  on  the  sacking  of  the  bedstead  in  the  chamber 
where  Mademoiselle  L.  was  found.  The  corpse  of  the 
young  lady  was  much  bruised  and  excoriated.  The  fact 
that  it  had  been  thrust  up  the  chimney  would  sufiiciently 
account  for  these  appearances.  The  throat  was  greatly 
chafed.  There  were  several  deep  scratches  just  below  the 
chin,  together  with  a  series  of  livid  spots  which  were  evi- 
dently the  impression  of  fingers.  The  face  was  fearfully 
discolored,  and  the  eyeballs  protruded.  The  tongue  had 
been  partially  bitten  through.  A  large  bruise  was  discov- 
ered upon  the  pit  of  the  stomach,  produced,  apparently, 
by  the  pressure  of  a  knee.  In  the  opinion  of  M.  Dumas, 
Mademoiselle  L'Espanaye  had  been  throttled  to  death  by 
some  person  or  persons  unknown.  The  corpse  of  the 
mother  was  horribly  mutilated.  All  the  bones  of  the  right 
leg  and  arm  were  more  or  less  shattered.  The  left  tibia 
much  splintered,  as  well  as  all  the  ribs  of  the  left  side. 
Whole  body  dreadfully  bruised  and  discolored.  It  was 
not  possible  to  say  how  the  injuries  had  been  inflicted. 
A  heavy  club  of  wood,  or  a  broad  bar  of  iron,  a  chair, 
any  large,  heavy,  and  obtuse  weapon,  would  have  pro- 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.   27 

duced  such  results,  if  wielded  by  the  hands  of  a  very 
powerful  man.  No  woman  could  have  inflicted  the  blows 
with  any  weapon.  The  head  of  the  deceased,  when  seen 
by  witness,  was  entirely  separated  from  the  body,  and 
was  also  greatly  shattered.  The  throat  had  evidently 
been  cut  with  some  very  sharp  instrument,  —  probably 
with  a  razor. 

"  Alexandre  Etienne,  surgeon,  was  called  with  M.  Du- 
mas to  view  the  bodies.  Corroborated  the  testimony, 
and  the  opinions  of  M.  Dumas. 

"  Nothing  further  of  importance  was  elicited,  although 
several  other  persons  were  examined.  A  murder  so  mys- 
terious, and  so  perplexing  in  all  its  particulars,  was  never 
before  committed  in  Paris,  —  if  indeed  a  murder  has  been 
committed  at  all.  The  police  are  entirely  at  fault,  —  an 
unusual  occurrence  in  affairs  of  this  nature.  There  is 
not,  however,  the  shadow  of  a  clew  apparent." 

The  evening  edition  of  the  paper  stated  that  the  great- 
est excitement  still  continued  in  the  Quartier  St.  Roch ; 
that  the  premises  in  question  had  been  carefully  re- 
searched, and  fresh  examinations  of  witnesses  instituted, 
but  all  to  no  purpose.  A  postscript,  however,  mentioned 
that  Adolphe  Le  Bon  had  been  arrested  and  imprisoned, 
although  nothing  appeared  to  criminate  him,  beyond  the 
facts  already  detailed. 

Dupin  seemed  singularly  interested  in  the  progress  of 
this  affair,  —  at  least  so  I  judged  from  his  manner,  for 
he  made  no  comments.  It  was  only  after  the  announce- 
ment that  Le  Bon  had  been  imprisoned,  that  he  asked  me 
my  opinion  respecting  the  murders. 

I  could  merely  agree  with  all  Paris  in  considering  them 


28  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

an  insoluble  mystery.     I  saw  no  means  by  which,  it  would 
be  possible  to  trace  the  murderer. 

"  We  must  not  judge  of  the  means,"  said  Dupin,  "  by 
this  shell  of  an  examination.  The  Parisian  police,  so 
much  extolled  for  acumen,  are  cunning,  but  no  more. 
There  is  no  method  in  their  proceedings,  beyond  the 
method  of  the  moment.  They  make  a  vast  parade  of 
measures ;  but,  not  unfrequently,  these  are  so  ill  adapted 
to  the  objects  proposed,  as  to  put  us  in  mind  of  Monsieur 
Jourdain's  calling  for  his  robe-de-chambre — pour  mieux 
entendre  la  musique.  The  results  attained  by  them  are 
not  unfrequently  surprising,  but,  for  the  most  part,  are 
brought  about  by  simple  diligence  and  activity.  When 
these  qualities  are  unavailing,  their  schemes  fail.  Vi- 
docq,  for  example,  was  a  good  guesser  and  a  persevering 
man.  But,  without  educated  thought,  he  erred  contin- 
ually by  the  very  intensity  of  his  investigations.  He  im- 
paired his  vision  by  holding  the  object  too  close.  He 
might  see,  perhaps,  one  or  two  points  with  unusual  clear- 
ness, but  in  so  doing  he  necessarily  lost  sight  of  the  mat- 
ter as  a  whole.  Thus  there  is  such  a  thing  as  being  too 
profound.  Truth  is  not  always  in  a  well.  In  fact,  as 
regards  the  more  important  knowledge,  I  do  believe  that 
she  is  invariably  superficial.  The  depth  lies  in  the  val- 
leys where  we  seek  her,  and  not  upon  the  mountain-tops 
where  she  is  found.  The  modes  and  sources  of  this  kind 
of  error  are  well  typified  in  the  contemplation  of  the 
heavenly  bodies.  To  look  at  a  star  by  glances,  to  view 
it  in  a  sidelong  way,  by  turning  toward  it  the  exterior 
portions  of  the  retina  (more  susceptible  of  feeble  impres- 
sions of  light  than  the  interior),  is  to  behold  the  star  dis- 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.   29 

tinctly,  is  to  have  the  best  appreciation  of  its  lustre, — 
a  lustre  which  grows  dim  just  in  proportion  as  we  turn 
our  vision  fully  upon  it.  A  greater  number  of  rays  actu- 
ally fall  upon  the  eye  in  the  latter  case,  but  in  the  for- 
mer there  is  the  more  refined  capacity  for  comprehension. 
By  undue  profundity  we  perplex  and  enfeeble  thought ; 
and  it  is  possible  to  make  even  Venus  herself  vanish  from 
the  firmament  by  a  scrutiny  too  sustained,  too  concen- 
trated, or  too  direct. 

"  As  for  these  murders,  let  us  enter  into  some  exami- 
nations for  ourselves,  before  we  make  up  an  opinion  re- 
specting them.  An  inquiry  will  afford  us  amusement" 
[I  thought  this  an  odd  term,  so  applied,  but  said  nothing], 
"  and,  besides,  Le  Bon  once  rendered  me  a  service  for 
which  I  am  not  ungrateful.  We  will  go  and  see  the 
premises  with  our  own  eyes.  I  know  G ,  the  Pre- 
fect of  Police,  and  shall  have  no  difficulty  in  obtaining 
the  necessary  permission." 

The  permission  was  obtained,  and  we  proceeded  at 
once  to  the  Rue  Morgue.  This  is  one  of  those  miserable 
thoroughfares  which  intervene  between  the  Rue  Richelieu 
and  the  Rue  St.  Roch.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when 
we  reached  it,  as  this  quarter  is  at  a  great  distance  from 
that  in  which  we  resided.  The  house  was  readily  found ; 
for  there  were  still  many  persons  gazing  up  at  the  closed 
shutters,  with  an  objectless  curiosity,  from  the  opposite 
side  of  the  way.  It  was  an  ordinary  Parisian  house,  with 
a  gateway,  on  one  side  of  which  was  a  glazed  watch-box, 
with  a  sliding  panel  in  the  window,  indicating  a  loge  de 
concierge.  Before  going  in,  we  walked  up  the  street, 
turned  down  an  alley,  and  then,  again  turning,  passed 


30  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

in  the  rear  of  the  building,  —  Dupin,  meanwhile,  examin- 
ing the  whole  neighborhood,  as  well  as  the  house,  with  a 
minuteness  of  attention  for  which  I  could  see  no  possible- 
object. 

Retracing  our  steps,  we  came  again  to  the  front  of  the 
dwelling,  rang,  and,  having  shown  our  credentials,  were 
admitted  by  the  agents  in  charge.  We  went  up  stairs,  — 
into  the  chamber  where  the  body  of  Mademoiselle  L'Es- 
panaye  had  been  found,  and  where  both  the  deceased  still 
lay.  The  disorders  of  the  room  had,  as  usual,  been  suf- 
fered to  exist.  I  saw  nothing  beyond  what  had  been 
stated  in  the  Gazette  des  Tribunaux.  Dupin  scruti- 
nized everything,  —  not  excepting  the  bodies  of  the  vic- 
tims. We  then  went  into  the  other  rooms,  and  into  the 
yard ;  a  gendarme  accompanying  us  throughout.  The  ex- 
amination occupied  us  until  dark,  when  we  took  our  de- 
parture. On  our  way  home  my  companion  stepped  in 
for  a  moment  at  the  office  of  one  of  the  daily  papers. 

I  have  said  that  the  whims  of  my  friend  were  mani- 
fold, and  that  Je  les  menagais,  —  for  this  phrase  there  is 
no  English  equivalent.  It  was  his  humor,  now,  to  de- 
cline all  conversation  on  the  subject  of  the  murder,  until 
about  noon  the  next  day.  He  then  asked  me,  suddenly, 
if  I  had  observed  anything  peculiar  at  the  scene  of  the 
atrocity. 

There  was  something  in  his  manner  of  emphasizing 
the  word  "  peculiar  "  which  caused  me  to  shudder,  with- 
out knowing  why. 

"No,  nothing  peculiar,"  I  said;  "nothing  more,  at 
least,  than  we  both  saw  stated  in  the  paper." 

"The    Gazette"    he  replied,   "has   not    entered,    I 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.   81 

fear,  into  the  unusual  horror  of  the  thing.  But  dismiss 
the  idle  opinions  of  this  print.  It  appears  to  me  that 
this  mystery  is  considered  insoluble,  for  the  very  reason 
which  should  cause  it  to  be  regarded  as  easy  of  solutiou,  — 
I  mean,  for  the  outre  character  of  its  features.  The  police 
are  confounded  by  the  seeming  absence  of  motive,  —  not 
for  the  murder  itself,  —  but  for  the  atrocity  of  the  mur- 
der. They  are  puzzled,  too,  by  the  seeming  impossibility 
of  reconciling  the  voices  heard  in  contention,  with  the 
facts  that  no  one  was  discovered  up  stairs  but  the  assas- 
sinated Mademoiselle  L'Espanaye,  and  that  there  were 
no  means  of  egress  without  the  notice  of  the  party 
ascending.  The  wild  disorder  of  the  room ;  the  corpse 
thrust,  with  the  head  downward,  up  the  chimney;  the 
frightful  mutilation  of  the  body  of  the  old  lady,  —  these 
considerations,  with  those  just  mentioned,  and  others 
which  I  need  not  mention,  have  sufficed  to  paralyze  the 
powers,  by  putting  completely  at  fault  the  boasted  acumen 
of  the  government  agents.  They  have  fallen  into  the 
gross  but  common  error  of  confounding  the  unusual  with 
the  abstruse.  But  it  is  by  these  deviations  from  the 
plane  of  the  ordinary,  that  reason  feels  its  way,  if  at  all, 
in  its  search  for  the  true.  In  investigations  such  as  we 
are  now  pursuing,  it  should  not  be  so  much  asked  '  what 
has  occurred,'  as  '  what  has  occurred  that  has  never 
occurred  before.'  In  fact,  the  facility  with  which  I  shall 
arrive,  or  have  arrived,  at  the  solution  of  this  mystery,  is 
in  the  direct  ratio  of  its  apparent  insolubility  in  the  eyes 
of  the  police." 

I  stared  at  the  speaker  in  mute  astonishment. 

"  I  am  now  awaiting,"  continued  he,  looking  toward 


32  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

the  door  of  our  apartment,  —  "I  am  now  awaiting  9 
person  who,  although  perhaps  not  the  perpetrator  of 
these  butcheries,  must  have  been  in  some  measure  im- 
plicated in  their  perpetration.  Of  the  worst  portion  of 
the  crimes  committed,  it  is  probable  that  he  is  innocent. 
I  hope  that  I  am  right  in  this  supposition ;  for  upon  it  I 
build  my  expectation  of  reading  the  entire  riddle.  I  look 
for  the  man  here  —  in  this  room  —  every  moment.  It 
is  true  that  he  may  not  arrive ;  but  the  probability  is  that 
he  will.  Should  he  come,  it  will  be  necessary  to  detain 
him.  Here  are  pistols ;  and  we  both  know  how  to  use 
them  when  occasion  demands  their  use." 

I  took  the  pistols,  scarcely  knowing  what  I  did,  or 
believing  what  I  heard,  while  Dupin  went  on,  very  much 
as  if  in  a  soliloquy.  I  have  already  spoken  of  his  abstract 
manner  at  such  times.  His  discourse  was  addressed  to 
myself;  but  his  voice,  although  by  no  means  loud,  had 
that  intonation  which  is  commonly  employed  in  speaking 
to  some  one  at  a  great  distance.  His  eyes,  vacant  in 
expression,  regarded  only  the  wall. 

"  That  the  voices  heard  in  contention,"  he  said,  "  by 
the  party  upon  the  stairs,  were  not  the  voices  of  the 
women  themselves,  was  fully  proved  by  the  evidence. 
This  relieves  us  of  all  doubt  upon  the  question  whether 
the  old  lady  could  have  first  destroyed  the  daughter,  and 
afterward  have  committed  suicide.  I  speak  of  this  point 
chiefly  for  the  sake  of  method ;  for  the  strength  of  Ma- 
dame L'Espanaye  would  have  been  utterly  unequal  to 
the  task  of  thrusting  her  daughter's  corpse  up  the  chim- 
ney as  it  was  found ;  and  the  nature  of  the  wounds  upon 
her  own  person  entirely  precludes  the  idea  of  self-destruc- 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.    33 

tion.  Murder,  then,  has  been  committed  by  some  third 
party;  and  the  voices  of  this  third  party  were  those 
heard  in  contention.  Let  me  now  advert,  not  to  the 
whole  testimony  respecting  these  voices,  but  to  what 
was  peculiar  in  that  testimony.  Did  you  observe  any- 
thing peculiar  about  it  ?  " 

I  remarked  that,  while  all  the  witnesses  agreed  in  sup- 
posing the  gruff  voice  to  be  that  of  a  Frenchman,  there 
was  much  disagreement  in  regard  to  the  shrill,  or,  as  one 
individual  termed  it,  the  harsh  voice. 

"  That  was  the  evidence  itself,"  said  Dupin,  "  but  it 
was  not  the  peculiarity  of  the  evidence.  You  have 
observed  nothing  distinctive.  Yet  there  was  something 
to  be  observed.  The  witnesses,  as  you  remark,  agreed 
about  the  gruff  voice ;  they  were  here  unanimous.  But 
in  regard  to  the  shrill  voice,  the  peculiarity  is,  not  that 
they  disagreed,  but  that,  while  an  Italian,  an  English- 
man, a  Spaniard,  a  Hollander,  and  a  Frenchman  at- 
tempted to  describe  it,  each  one  spoke  of  it  as  that  of  a 
foreigner.  Each  is  sure  that  it  was  not  the  voice  of  one 
of  his  own  countrymen.  Each  likens  it,  not  to  the 
voice  of  an  individual  of  any  nation  with  whose  language 
he  is  conversant,  but  the  converse.  The  Frenchman 
supposes  it  the  voice  of  a  Spaniard,  and  '  might  have 
distinguished  some  words  had  he  been  acquainted  with  the 
Spanish.'  The  Dutchman  maintains  it  to  have  been  that 
of  a  Frenchman ;  but  we  find  it  stated  that,  '  not  under- 
standing French,  this  witness  was  examined  through  an 
interpreter.'  The  Englishman  thinks  it  the  voice  of  a 
German,  and  ' does  not  understand  German'  The  Span- 
iard '  is  sure '  that  it  was  that  of  an  Englishman,  but 
2*  o 


84  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

'judges  by  the  intonation '  altogether,  '  as  he  has  no 
knowledge  of  the  English.'  The  Italian  believes  it  the 
voice  of  a  Russian,  but  '  has  never  conversed  with  a  native 
of  Russia.'  A  second  Frenchman  differs,  moreover,  with 
the  first,  and  is  positive  that  the  voice  was  that  of  an 
Italian ;  but,  not  being  cognizant  of  that  tongue,  is,  like 
the  Spaniard,  '  convinced  by  the  intonation.'  Now,  how 
strangely  unusual  must  that  voice  have  really  been,  about 
which  such  testimony  as  this  could  have  been  elicited !  — 
in  whose  tones,  even,  denizens  of  the  five  great  divisions 
of  Europe  could  recognize  nothing  familiar !  You  will 
say  that  it  might  have  been  the  voice  of  an  Asiatic,  of 
an  African.  Neither  Asiatics  nor  Africans  abound  in 
Paris ;  but,  without  denying  the  inference,  I  will  now 
merely  call  your  attention  to  three  points.  The  voice  is 
termed  by  one  witness  '  harsh  rather  than  shrill.'  It  is 
represented  by  two  others  to  have  been  '  quick  and  un- 
equal.' No  words  —  no  sounds  resembling  words  — 
were  by  any  witness  mentioned  as  distinguishable. 

"  I  know  not,"  continued  Dupin,  "  what  impression  I 
may  have  made,  so  far,  upon  your  own  understanding ; 
but  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  legitimate  deductions 
even  from  this  portion  of  the  testimony  —  the  portion 
respecting  the  gruff  and  shrill  voices  —  are  in  themselves 
sufficient  to  engender  a  suspicion  which  should  give 
direction  to  all  further  progress  in  the  investigation  of 
the  mystery.  I  said  '  legitimate  deductions ' ;  but  my 
meaning  is  not  thus  fully  expressed.  I  designed  to  im- 
ply that  the  deductions  are  the  sole  proper  ones,  and  that 
the  suspicion  arises  inevitably  from  them  as  the  single 
result.  What  the  suspicion  is,  however,  I  will  not  say 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.    35 

just  yet.  I  merely  wish  you  to  bear  in  mind  that,  with 
myself  it  was  sufficiently  forcible  to  give  a  definite  form 
—  a  certain  tendency  —  to  my  inquiries  in  the  chamber. 
"  Let  us  now  transport  ourselves,  in  fancy,  to  this 
chamber.  What  shall  we  first  seek  here  ?  The  means 
of  egress  employed  by  the  murderers.  It  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  neither  of  us  believes  in  preternatural 
events.  Madame  and  Mademoiselle  L'Espanaye  were 
not  destroyed  by  spirits.  The  doers  of  the  deed  were 
material,  and  escaped  materially.  Then  how?  Fortu- 
nately, there  is  but  one  mode  of  reasoning  upon  the 
point,  and  that  mode  must  lead  us  to  a  definite  decision. 
Let  us  examine,  each  by  each,  the  possible  means  of  egress. 
It  is  clear  that  the  assassins  were  in  the  room  where  Mad- 
emoiselle L'Espanaye  was  found,  or  at  least  in  the  room 
adjoining,  when  the  party  ascended  the  stairs.  .It  is  then 
only  from  these  two  apartments  that  we  have  to  seek 
issues.  The  police  have  laid  bare  the  floors,  the  ceilings, 
and  the  masonry  of  the  walls,  in  every  direction.  No 
secret  issues  could  have  escaped  their  vigilance.  But,  not 
trusting  to  their  eyes,  I  examined  with  my  own.  There 
were,  then,  no  secret  issues.  Both  doors  leading  from  the 
rooms  into  the  passage  were  securely  locked,  with  the 
keys  inside.  Let  us  turn  to  the  chimneys.  These,  al- 
though of  ordinary  width  for  some  eight  or  ten  feet  above 
the  hearths,  will  not  admit,  throughout  their  extent,  the 
body  of  a  large  cat.  The  impossibility  of  egress,  by 
means  already  stated,  being  thus  absolute,  we  are  re- 
duced to  the  windows.  Through  those  of  the  front 
room  no  one  could  have  escaped  without  notice  from  the 
crowd  in  the  street.  The  murderers  must  have  passed, 


36  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

then,  through  those  of  the  back  room.  Now,  brought  to 
this  conclusion  in  so  unequivocal  a  manner  as  we  are,  it 
is  not  our  part,  as  reasoners,  to  reject  it  on  account  of  ap- 
parent impossibilities.  It  is  only  left  for  us  to  prove  that 
these  apparent  '  impossibilities '  are,  in  reality,  not  such. 

"  There  are  two  windows  in  the  chamber.  One  of 
them  is  unobstructed  by  furniture,  and  is  wholly  visible. 
The  lower  portion  of  the  other  is  hidden  from  view  by 
the  head  of  the  unwieldy  bedstead  which  is  thrust  close 
up  against  it.  The  former  was  found  securely  fastened 
from  within.  It  resisted  the  utmost  force  of  those  who 
endeavored  to  raise  it.  A  large  gimlet-hole  had  been 
pierced  in  its  frame  to  the  left,  and  a  very  stout  nail  was 
found  fitted  therein,  nearly  to  the  head.  Upon  examin- 
ing the  other  window,  a  similar  nail  was  seen  similarly 
fitted  in  it;  and  a  vigorous  attempt  to  raise  this  sash 
failed  also.  The  police  were  now  entirely  satisfied  that 
egress  had  not  been  in  these  directions.  And,  therefore, 
it  was  thought  a  matter  of  supererogation  to  withdraw 
the  nails  and  open  the  windows. 

"  My  own  examination  was  somewhat  more  particular, 
and  was  so  for  the  reason  I  have  just  given,  —  because 
here  it  was,  I  knew,  that  all  apparent  impossibilities 
must  be  proved  to  be  not  such  in  reality. 

"  I  proceeded  to  think  thus,  —  a  posteriori.  The  mur- 
derers did  escape  from  one  of  these  windows.  This 
being  so,  they  could  not  have  re-fastened  the  sashes  from 
the  inside,  as  they  were  found  fastened,  —  the  considera- 
tion which  put  a  stop,  through  its  obviousness,  to  the 
scrutiny  of  the  police  in  this  quarter.  Yet  the  sashes 
were  fastened.  They  must,  then,  have  the  power  of  fas- 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.   37 

tening  themselves.  There  was  no  escape  from  this  con- 
clusion. I  stepped  to  the  unobstructed  casement,  with- 
drew the  nail  with  some  difficulty,  and  attempted  to 
raise  the  sash.  It  resisted  all  my  efforts,  as  I  had  anti- 
cipated. A  concealed  spring  must,  I  now  knew,  exist ; 
and  this  corroboration  of  my  idea  convinced  me  that  my 
premises,  at  least,  were  correct,  however  mysterious  still 
appeared  the  circumstances  attending  the  nails.  A  care- 
ful search  soon  brought  to  light  the  hidden  spring.  I 
pressed  it,  and,  satisfied  with  the  discovery,  forbore  to 
upraise  the  sash. 

"  I  now  replaced  the  nail  and  regarded  it  attentively. 
A  person  passing  out  through  this  window  might  have 
reclosed  it,  and  the  spring  would  have  caught,  —  but  the 
nail  could  not  have  been  replaced.  The  conclusion  was 
plain  and  again  narrowed  in  the  field  of  my  investiga- 
tions. The  assassins  must  have  escaped  through  the 
other  window.  Supposing,  then,  the  springs  upon  each 
sash  to  be  the  same,  as  was  probable,  there  must  be 
found  a  difference  between  the  nails,  or  at  least  between 
the  modes  of  their  fixture.  Getting  upon  the  sacking 
of  the  bedstead,  I  looked  over  the  head-board  minutely 
at  the  second  casement.  Passing  my  hand  down  behind 
the  board,  I  readily  discovered  and  pressed  the  spring, 
which  was,  as  I  had  supposed,  identical  in  character 
with  its  neighbor.  I  now  looked  at  the  nail.  It  was 
as  stout  as  the  other,  and  apparently  fitted  in  the  same 
manner,  —  driven  in  nearly  up  to  the  head. 

"  You  will  say  that  I  was  puzzled ;  but,  if  you  think 
so,  you  must  have  misunderstood  the  nature  of  the 
inductions.  To  use  a  sporting  phrase,  I  had  not  been 


88  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

once  '  at  fault.'  The  scent  had  never  for  an  instant  been 
lost.  There  was  no  flaw  in  any  link  of  the  chain.  I  had 
traced  the  secret  to  its  ultimate  result,  —  and  that  result 
was  the  nail.  It  had,  I  say,  in  every  respect,  the  appear- 
ance of  its  fellow  in  the  other  window;  but  this  fact 
was  an  absolute  nullity  (conclusive  as  it  might  seem  to 
be)  when  compared  with  the  consideration  that  here,  at 
this  point,  terminated  the  clew.  '  There  must  be  some- 
thing wrong,'  I  said,  'about  the  nail.'  I  touched  it; 
and  the  head,  with  about  a  quarter  of  an  inch  of  the 
shank,  came  off  in  my  fingers.  The  rest  of  the  shank 
was  in  the  gimlet-hole,  where  it  had  been  broken  off. 
The  fracture  was  an  old  one  (for  its  edges  were  incrusted 
with  rust),  and  had  apparently  been  accomplished  by  the 
blow  of  a  hammer,  which  had  partially  imbedded,  in  the 
top  of  the  bottom  sash,  the  head  portion  of  the  nail.  I 
now  carefully  replaced  this  head  portion  in  the  indenta- 
tion whence  I  had  taken  it,  and  the  resemblance  to  a 
perfect  nail  was  complete,  —  the  fissure  was  invisible. 
Pressing  the  spring,  I  gently  raised  the  sash  for  a  few 
inches ;  the  head  went  up  with  it,  remaining  firm  in  its 
bed.  I  closed  the  window,  and  the  semblance  of  the 
whole  nail  was  again  perfect. 

"The  riddle,  so  far,  was  now  unriddled.  The  assassin 
had  escaped  through  the  window  which  looked  upon  the 
bed.  Dropping  of  its  own  accord  upon  his  exit  (or 
perhaps  purposely  closed),  it  had  become  fastened  by  the 
spring;  and  it  was  the  retention  of  this  spring  which 
had  been  mistaken  by  the  police  for  that  of  the  nail,  — 
further  inquiry  being  thus  considered  unnecessary. 

"  The  next  question  is  that  of  the  mode  of  descent 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.    89 

Upon  this  point  I  had  been  satisfied  in  my  walk  with 
you  around  the  building.  About  five  feet  and  a  half 
from  the  casement  in  question  runs  a  lightning-rod. 
From  this  rod  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  any  one 
to  reach  the  window  itself,  to  say  nothing  of  entering  it. 
I  observed,  however,  that  the  shutters  of  the  fourth 
story  were  of  the  peculiar  kind  called  by  Parisian  car- 
penters ferrades,  — a  kind  rarely  employed  at  the  present 
day,  but  frequently  seen  upon  very  old  mansions  at 
Lyons  and  Bordeaux.  They  are  in  the  form  of  an  ordi- 
nary door  (a  single,  not  a  folding  door),  except  that  the 
lower  half  is  latticed  or  worked  in  open  trellis,  thus 
affording  an  excellent  hold  for  the  hands.  In  the  pres- 
ent instance  these  shutters  are  fully  three  feet  and  a  half 
broad.  When  we  saw  them  from  the  rear  of  the  house, 
they  were  both  about  half  open ;  that  is  to  say,  they 
stood  off  at  right  angles  from  the  wall.  It  is  probable 
that  the  police,  as  well  as  myself,  examined  the  back  of 
the  tenement;  but,  if  so,  in  looking  at  these  ferrades  in 
the  line  of  their  breadth  (as  they  must  have  done),  they 
did  not  perceive  this  great  breadth  itself,  or,  at  all 
events,  failed  to  take  it  into  due  consideration.  In  fact, 
having  once  satisfied  themselves  that  no  egress  could 
have  been  made  in  this  quarter,  they  would  naturally 
bestow  here  a  very  cursory  examination.  It  was  clear 
to  me,  however,  that  the  shutter  belonging  to  the  win- 
dow at  the  head  of  the  bed  would,  if  swung  fully  back 
to  the  wall,  reach  to  within  two  feet  of  the  lightning-rod. 
It  was  also  evident  that,  by  exertion  of  a  very  unusual 
degree  of  activity  and  courage,  an  entrance  into  the  win- 
dow, from  the  rod,  might  have  been  thus  effected.  By 


40  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

reaching  to  the  distance  of  two  feet  and  a  half  (we  now 
suppose  the  shutter  open  to  its  whole  extent)  a  robber 
might  have  taken  a  firm  grasp  upon  the  trellis-work. 
Letting  go,  then,  his  hold  upon  the  rod,  placing  his  feet 
securely  against  the  wall,  and  springing  boldly  from  it, 
he  might  have  swung  the  shutter  so  as  to  close  it,  and, 
if  we  imagine  the  window  open  at  the  time,  might  even 
have  swung  himself  into  the  room. 

"  I  wish  you  to  bear  especially  in  mind  that  I  have 
spoken  of  a  very  unusual  degree  of  activity  as  requisite 
to  success  in  so  hazardous  and  so  difficult  a  feat.  It  is 
my  design  to  show  you,  first,  that  the  thing  might  possi- 
bly have  been  accomplished;  but,  secondly  and  chiefly, 
I  wish  to  impress  upon  your  understanding  the  very  ex- 
traordinary, the  almost  preternatural  character  of  that 
agility  which  could  have  accomplished  it. 

"  You  will  say,  no  doubt,  using  the  language  of  the 
law,  that,  '  to  make  out  my  case,'  I  should  rather  under- 
value than  insist  upon  a  full  estimation  of  the  activity 
required  in  this  matter.  This  may  be  the  practice  in 
law,  but  it  is  not  the  usage  of  reason.  My  ultimate 
object  is  only  the  truth.  My  immediate  purpose  is  to 
lead  you  to  place  in  juxtaposition  that  very  unusual 
activity  of  which  I  have  just  spoken,  with  that  very 
peculiar  shrill  (or  harsh)  and  unequal  voice,  about  whose 
nationality  no  two  persons  could  be  found  to  agree,  and 
in  whose  utterance  no  syllabification  could  be  detected." 

At  these  words  a  vague  and  half-formed  conception 
of  the  meaning  of  Dupin  flitted  over  my  mind.  I  seemed 
to  be  upon  the  verge  of  comprehension,  without  power 
to  comprehend,  —  as  men,  at  times,  find  themselves  upo» 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.   41 

the  brink  of  remembrance,  without  being  able,  in  the  end, 
to  remember.     My  friend  went  on  with  his  discourse. 

"You  will  see,"  he  said,  "that  I  have  shifted  the 
question  from  the  mode  of  egress  to  that  of  ingress.  It 
was  my  design  to  convey  the  idea  that  both  were  ef- 
fected in  the  same  manner,  at  the  same  point.  Let  us 
now  revert  to  the  interior  of  the  room.  Let  us  survey 
the  appearances  here.  The  drawers  of  the  bureau,  it  is 
said,  had  been  rifled,  although  many  articles  of  apparel 
still  remained  within  them.  The  conclusion  here  is 
absurd.  It  is  a  mere  guess,  —  a  very  silly  one,  —  and  no 
more.  How  are  we  to  know  that  the  articles  found  in 
the  drawers  were  not  all  these  drawers  had  originally 
contained  ?  Madame  L'Espanaye  and  her  daughter  lived 
an  exceedingly  retired  life,  —  saw  no  company,  —  seldom 
went  out,  —  had  little  use  for  numerous  changes  of  habil- 
iment. Those  found  were  at  least  of  as  good  quality  as 
any  likely  to  be  possessed  by  these  ladies.  If  a  thief 
had  taken  any,  why  did  he  not  take  the  best,  why  did 
he  not  take  all  ?  In  a  word,  why  did  he  abandon  four 
thousand  francs  in  gold  to  encumber  himself  with  a 
bundle  of  linen  ?  The  gold  was  abandoned.  Nearly  the 
whole  sum  mentioned  by  Monsieur  Mignaud,  the  banker, 
•was  discovered,  in  bags,  upon  the  floor.  I  wish  you, 
therefore,  to  discard  from  your  thoughts  the  blundering 
idea  of  motive,  engendered  in  the  brains  of  the  police  by 
that  portion  of  the  evidence  which  speaks  of  money  de- 
livered at  the  door  of  the  house.  Coincidences  ten  times 
as  remarkable  as  this  (the  delivery  of  the  money,  and 
murder  committed  within  three  days  upon  the  party 
receiving  it)  happen  to  all  of  us  every  hour  of  our  lives, 


42  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

without  attracting  even  momentary  notice.  Coincidences, 
in  general,  are  great  stumbling-blocks  in  the  way  of  that 
class  of  thinkers  who  have  been  educated  to  know  noth- 
ing of  the  theory  of  probabilities,  —  that  theory  to  which 
the  most  glorious  objects  of  human  research  are  indebted 
for  the  most  glorious  of  illustrations.  In  the  present 
instance,  had  the  gold  been  gone,  the  fact  of  its  delivery 
three  days  before  would  have  formed  something  more 
than  a  coincidence.  It  would  have  been  corroborative 
of  this  idea  of  motive.  But,  under  the  real  circumstances 
of  the  case,  if  we  are  to  suppose  gold  the  motive  of  this 
outrage,  we  must  also  imagine  the  perpetrator  so  vacil- 
lating an  idiot  as  to  have  abandoned  his  gold  and  his 
motive  together.  .  ^ 

"  Keeping  now  steadily  in  mind  the  points  to  which  I 
have  drawn  your  attention,  —  that  peculiar  voice,  that 
unusual  agility,  and  that  startling  absence  of  motive  in  a 
murder  so  singularly  atrocious  as  this,  —  let  us  glance  at 
the  butchery  itself.  Here  is  a  woman  strangled  to  death 
by  manual  strength,  and  thrust  up  a  chimney,  head 
downward.  Ordinary  assassins  employ  no  such  modes 
of  murder  as  this.  Least  of  all  do  they  thus  dispose  of 
the  murdered.  In  the  manner  of  thrusting  the  corpse 
up  the  chimney,  you  will  admit  that  there  was  something 
excessively  outre ;  something  altogether  irreconcilable 
with  our  common  notions  of  human  action,  even  when 
we  suppose  the  actors  the  most  depraved  of  men.  Think, 
too,  how  great  must  have  been  that  strength  which  could 
have  thrust  the  body  up  such  an  aperture  so  forcibly  that 
the  united  vigor  of  several  persons  was  found  barely  suf- 
ficient to  drag  it  down  ! 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.   43 

"  Turn  now  to  other  indications  of  the  employment 
of  a  vigor  most  marvellous.  On  the  hearth  were  thick 
tresses  —  very  thick  tresses  —  of  gray  human  hair.  These 
had  been  torn  out  by  the  roots.  You  are  aware  of  the 
great  force  necessary  in  tearing  thus  from  the  head  even 
twenty  or  thirty  hairs  together.  You  saw  the  locks  in 
question  as  well  as  myself.  Their  roots  (a  hideous 
sight !)  were  clotted  with  fragments  of  the  flesh  of  the 
scalp,  —  sure  token  of  the  prodigious  power  which  had 
been  exerted  in  uprooting  perhaps  half  a  million  of  hairs 
at  a  time.  The  throat  of  the  old  lady  was  not  merely 
cut,  but  the  head  absolutely  severed  from  the  body ;  the 
instrument  was  a  mere  razor.  I  wish  you  also  to  look 
at  the  brutal  ferocity  of  these  deeds.  Of  the  bruises 
upon  the  body  of  Madame  L'Espanaye  I  do  not  speak. 
Monsieur  Dumas,  and  his  worthy  coadjutor  Monsieur 
Etienne,  have  pronounced  that  they  were  inflicted  by 
some  obtuse  instrument,  and  so  far  these  gentlemen  are 
very  correct.  The  obtuse  instrument  was  clearly  the 
stone  pavement  in  the  yard,  upon  which  the  victim  had 
fallen  from  the  window  which  looked  in  upon  the  bed. 
This  idea,  however  simple  it  may  now  seem,  escaped  the 
police,  for  the  same  reason  that  the  breadth  of  the  shut- 
ters escaped  them,  —  because,  by  the  affair  of  the  nails, 
their  perceptions  had  been  hermetically  sealed  against 
the  possibility  of  the  windows  having  ever  been  opened 
at  all. 

"If  now,  in  addition  to  all  these  things,  you  have 
properly  reflected  upon  the  odd  disorder  of  the  chamber, 
we  have  gone  so  far  as  to  combine  the  ideas  of  an  agility 
astounding,  a  strength  superhuman,  a  ferocity  brutal,  a 


44  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

butchery  without  motive,  a  grotesquerie  in  horror  abso- 
lutely alien  from  humanity,  and  a  voice  foreign  in  tone  to 
the  ears  of  men  of  many  nations,  and  devoid  of  all  dis- 
tinct or  intelligible  syllabification.  What  result,  then, 
has  ensued  ?  What  impression  have  I  made  upon  your 
fancy?" 

I  felt  a  creeping  of  the  flesh  as  Dupin  asked  me  the 
question.  "  A  madman,"  I  said,  "  has  done  this  deed ; 
some  raving  maniac,  escaped  from  a  neighboring  Maison 
de  Sante." 

"  In  some  respects,"  he  replied,  "  your  idea  is  not 
irrelevant.  But  the  voices  of  madmen,  even  in  their 
wildest  paroxysms,  are  never  found  to  tally  with  that 
peculiar  voice  heard  upon  the  stairs.  Madmen  are  of 
some  nation,  and  their  language,  however  incoherent  in 
its  words,  has  always  the  coherence  of  syllabification. 
Besides,  the  hair  of  a  madman  is  not  such  as  I  now  hold 
in  my  hand.  I  disentangled  this  little  tuft  from  the 
rigidly  clutched  fingers  of  Madame  L'Espanaye.  Tell 
me  what  you  can  make  of  it." 

"  Dupin,"  I  said,  completely  unnerved,  "  this  hair  is 
most  unusual ;  this  is  no  human  hair." 

"  I  have  not  asserted  that  it  is,"  said  he ;  "  but, 
before  we  decide  this  point,  I  wish  you  to  glance  at  the 
little  sketch  I  have  here  traced  upon  this  paper.  It  is  a 
fac-simile  drawing  of  what  has  been  described  in  one  por- 
tion of  the  testimony  as  '  dark  bruises,  and  deep  indenta- 
tions of  finger-nails,'  upon  the  throat  of  Mademoiselle 
L'Espanaye,  and  in  another  (by  Messrs.  Dumas  and 
Etienne)  as  a  '  series  of  livid  spots,  evidently  the  impres- 
sion of  fingers.' 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.   45 

"  You  will  perceive,"  continued  my  friend,  spreading 
out  the  paper  upon  the  table  before  us,  "  that  this  draw- 
ing gives  the  idea  of  a  firm  and  fixed  hold.  There  is  no 
slipping  apparent.  Each  finger  has  retained,  possibly 
until  the  death  of  the  victim,  the  fearful  grasp  by  which 
it  originally  embedded  itself.  Attempt  now  to  place  all 
your  fingers,  at  the  same  time,  in  the  respective  impres- 
sions as  you  see  them." 

I  made  the  attempt  in  vain. 

"  We  are  possibly  not  giving  this  matter  a  fair  trial," 
he  said.  "The  paper  is  spread  out  upon  a  plane  sur- 
face; but  the  human  throat  is  cylindrical.  Here  is  a 
billet  of  wood,  the  circumference  of  which  is  about  that 
of  the  throat.  Wrap  the  drawing  around  it,  and  try  the 
experiment  again." 

I  did  so  ;  but  the  difficulty  was  even  more  obvious  than 
before.  "  This,"  I  said,  "  is  the  mark  of  no  human  hand." 

"  Head  now,"  replied  Dupin,  "  this  passage  from  Cu- 
vier." 

It  was  a  minute  anatomical  and  generally  descriptive 
account  of  the  large  fulvous  Ourang-Outang  of  the  East 
Indian  Islands.  The  gigantic  stature,  the  prodigious 
strength  and  activity,  the  wild  ferocity,  and  the  imitative 
propensities  of  these  mammalia  are  sufficiently  well 
known  to  all.  I  understood  the  full  horrors  of  the  mur- 
der at  once. 

"  The  description  of  the  digits,"  said  I,  as  I  made  an 
end  of  reading,  "  is  in  exact  accordance  with  this  draw- 
ing. I  see  that  no  animal  but  an  Ourang-Outang  of  the 
species  here  mentioned  could  have  impressed  the  inden- 
tations as  you  have  traced  them.  This  tuft  of  tawny 


46  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

hair,  too,  is  identical  in  character  with  that  of  the  beast 
of  Cuvier.  But  I  cannot  possibly  comprehend  the  par- 
ticulars of  this  frightful  mystery.  Besides,  there  were 
two  voices  heard  in  contention,  and  one  of  them  was 
unquestionably  the  voice  of  a  Frenchman." 

"  True ;  and  you  will  remember  an  expression  attrib- 
uted almost  unanimously,  by  the  evidence,  to  this  voice, 
—  the  expression  mon  Dieu!  This,  under  the  circum- 
stances, has  been  justly  characterized  by  one  of  the  wit- 
nesses (Montani,  the  confectioner)  as  an  expression  of 
remonstrance  or  expostulation.  Upon  these  two  words, 
therefore,  I  have  mainly  built  my  hopes  of  a  full  solution 
of  the  riddle.  A  Frenchman  was  cognizant  of  the  mur- 
der. It  is  possible,  indeed  it  is  far  more  than  probable, 
that  he  was  innocent  of  all  participation  in  the  bloody 
transactions  which  took  place.  The  Ourang-Outang  may 
have  escaped  from  him.  He  may  have  traced  it  to  the 
chamber ;  but,  under  the  agitating  circumstances  which 
ensued,  he  could  never  have  recaptured  it.  It  is  still  at 
large.  I  will  not  pursue  these  guesses,  —  for  I  have  no 
right  to  call  them  more,  —  since  the  shades  of  reflection 
upon  which  they  are  based  are  scarcely  of  sufficient 
depth  to  be  appreciable  by  my  own  intellect,  and  since  I 
could  not  pretend  to  make  them  intelligible  to  the  under- 
standing of  another.  We  will  call  them  guesses,  then, 
and  speak  of  them  as  such.  If  the  Frenchman  in  ques- 
tion is  indeed,  as  I  suppose,  innocent  of  this  atrocity,  this 
advertisement,  which  I  left  last  night,  upon  our  return 
home,  at  the  office  of  Le  Monde  (a  paper  devoted  to 
the  shipping  interest,  and  much  sought  by  sailors),  will 
bring  him  to  our  residence." 


THE    MURDERS    IN   THE    RUE    MORGUE.        47 
He  handed  me  a  paper,  and  I  read  thus  :  — 

CAUGHT.  — In  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  early  in  the  morn- 
ing of  the inst.  (the  morning  of  the  murder),  a  very 

large,  tawny  Ourang-Outang  of  the  Bornese  species.  The 
owner  (who  is  ascertained  to  be  a  sailor  belonging  to  a 
Maltese  vessel)  may  have  the  animal  again,  upon  identify- 
ing it  satisfactorily,  and  paying  a  few  charges  arising 

from  its  capture  and  keeping.     Call  at  No. ,  Rue 

,  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  —  au  troisieme. 

"How  was  it  possible,"  I  asked,  "that  you  should 
know  the  man  to  be  a  sailor,  and  belonging  to  a  Maltese 
vessel  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  it,"  said  Dupin.  "  I  am  not  sure  of 
it.  Here,  however,  is  a  small  piece  of  ribbon,  which 
from  its  form,  and  from  its  greasy  appearance,  has  evi- 
dently been  used  in  tying  the  hair  in  one  of  those  long 
queues  of  which  sailors  are  so  fond.  Moreover,  this 
knot  is  one  which  few  besides  sailors  can  tie,  and  is 
peculiar  to  the  Maltese.  I  picked  the  ribbon  up  at  the 
foot  of  the  lightning-rod.  It  could  not  have  belonged  to 
either  of  the  deceased.  Now  if,  after  all,  I  am  wrong 
in  my  induction  from  this  ribbon,  that  the  Frenchman, 
was  a  sailor  belonging  to  a  Maltese  vessel,  still  I  can 
have  done  no  harm  in  saying  what  I  did  in  the  adver- 
tisement. If  I  am  in  error,  he  will  merely  suppose  that 
I  have  been  misled  by  some  circumstance  into  which  he 
will  not  take  the  trouble  to  inquire.  But  if  I  am  right, 
a  great  point  is  gained.  Cognizant  although  innocent  of 
the  murder,  the  Frenchman  will  naturally  hesitate  about 
replying  to  the  advertisement,  —  about  demanding  the 


48  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Ourang-Outang.  He  will  reason  thus  :  '  I  am  innocent ; 
I  am  poor ;  my  Ourang-Outang  is  of  great  value,  —  to 
one  in  my  circumstances  a  fortune  of  itself,  —  why  should 
I  lose  it  through  idle  apprehensions  of  danger  ?  Here  it 
is,  within  my  grasp.  It  was  found  in  the  Bois  de  Bou- 
logne, —  at  a  vast  distance  from  the  scene  of  that  butch- 
ery. How  can  it  ever  be  suspected  that  a  brute  beast 
should  have  done  the  deed  ?  The  police  are  at  fault,  — 
they  have  failed  to  procure  the  slightest  clew.  Should 
they  even  trace  the  animal,  it  would  be  impossible  to 
prove  me  cognizant  of  the  murder,  or  to  implicate  me  in 
guilt  on  account  of  that  cognizance.  Above  all,  /  am 
known.  The  advertiser  designates  me  as  the  possessor 
of  the  beast.  I  am  not  sure  to  what  limit  his  knowledge 
may  extend.  Should  I  avoid  claiming  a  property  of  so 
great  value,  which  it  is  known  that  I  possess,  it  will 
render  the  animal,  at  least,  liable  to  suspicion.  It  is  not 
my  policy  to  attract  attention  either  to  myself  or  to  the 
beast.  I  will  answer  the  advertisement,  get  the  Ourang- 
Outang,  and  keep  it  close  until  this  matter  has  blown 
over.' " 

At  this  moment  we  heard  a  step  upon  the  stairs. 

"Be  ready,"  said  Dupin,  "with  your  pistols,  but 
neither  use  them  nor  show  them  until  at  a  signal  from 
myself." 

The  front  door  of  the  house  had  been  left  open,  and 
the  visitor  had  entered,  without  ringing,  and  advanced 
several  steps  upon  the  staircase.  Now,  however,  he 
seemed  to  hesitate.  Presently  we  heard  him  descending. 
Dupin  was  moving  quickly  to  the  door,  when  we  again 
heard  him  coming  up.  He  did  not  turn  back  a  second 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.    49 

time,  but  stepped  up  with  decision,  and  rapped  at  the 
door  of  our  chamber. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Dupin,  in  a  cheerful  and  hearty 
tone. 

A  man  entered.  He  was  a  sailor,  evidently,  —  a  tall, 
stout,  and  muscular-looking  person,  with  a  certain  dare- 
devil expression  of  countenance,  not  altogether  unpre- 
possessing. His  face,  greatly  sunburnt,  was  more  than 
half  hidden  by  whisker  and  mustachio.  He  had  with 
him  a  huge  oaken  cudgel,  but  appeared  to  be  otherwise 
unarmed.  He  bowed  awkwardly,  and  bade  us  "  good 
evening,"  in  French  accents,  which,  although  somewhat 
Neufchatelish,  were  still  sufficiently  indicative  of  a  Paris- 
ian origin. 

"Sit  down,  my  friend,"  said  Dupin.  "I  suppose  you 
have  called  about  the  Ourang-Outang.  Upon  my  word, 
I  almost  envy  you  the  possession  of  him,  —  a  remarkably 
fine,  and  no  doubt  a  very  valuable  animal.  How  old 
do  you  suppose  him  to  be  ?  " 

The  sailor  drew  a  long  breath,  with  the  air  of  a  man 
relieved  of  some  intolerable  burden,  and  then  replied,  in 
an  assured  tone,  — 

"  I  have  no  way  of  telling,  but  he  can't  be  more 
than  four  or  five  years  old.  Have  you  got  him  here  ?  " 

"0  no ;  we  had  no  conveniences  for  keeping  him 
here.  He  is  at  a  livery  stable  in  the  Rue  Dubourg,  just 
by.  You  can  get  him  in  the  morning.  Of  course  you 
are  prepared  to  identify  the  property  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  I  am,  sir." 

"  I  shall  be  sorry  to  part  with  him,"  said  Dupin. 

"  I  don't  mean  that  you  should  be  at  all  this  trouble 

VOL.  III.  3  D 


50  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

for  nothing,  sir,"  said  the  man.  "  Could  n't  expect  it. 
Am  very  willing  to  pay  a  reward  for  the  finding  of  the 
animal,  —  that  is  to  say,  anything  in  reason." 

"  Well,"  replied  my  friend,  "  that  is  all  very  fair,  to 
be  sure.  Let  me  think !  —  what  should  I  have  ?  Oh ! 
I  will  tell  you.  My  reward  shall  be  this.  You  shall 
give  me  all  the  information  in  your  power  about  these 
murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue." 

Dupin  said  the  last  words  in  a  very  low  tone,  and  very 
quietly.  Just  as  quietly,  too,  he  walked  toward  the 
door,  locked  it,  and  put  the  key  into  his  pocket.  He  then 
drew  a  pistol  from  his  bosom  and  placed  it,  without  the 
least  flurry,  upon  the  table. 

The  sailor's  face  flushed  up  as  if  he  were  straggling 
with  suffocation.  He  started  to  his  feet  and  grasped  his 
cudgel ;  but  the  next  moment  he  fell  back  into  bis  seat, 
trembling  violently,  and  with  the  countenance  of  death 
itself.  He  spoke  not  a  word.  I  pitied  him  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart. 

"My  friend,"  said  Dupin,  in  a  kind  tone,  "you  are 
alarming  yourself  unnecessarily,  —  you  are  indeed.  We 
mean  you  no  harm  whatever.  I  pledge  you  the  honor  of 
a  gentleman,  and  of  a  Frenchman,  that  we  intend  you 
no  injury.  I  perfectly  well  know  that  you  are  innocent 
of  the  atrocities  in  the  Rue  Morgue.  It  will  not  do, 
however,  to  deny  that  you  are  in  some  measure  impli- 
cated in  them.  From  what  I  have  already  said,  you 
must  know  that  I  have  had  means  of  information  about 
this  matter,  —  means  of  which  you  could  never  have 
dreamed.  Now  the  thing  stands  thus.  You  have  done 
nothing  which  you  could  have  avoided,  —  nothing,  cer- 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.   51 

tainly,  which  renders  you  culpable.  You  were  not  even 
guilty  of  robbery,  when  you  might  have  robbed  with  im- 
punity. You  have  nothing  to  conceal.  You  have  no 
reason  for  concealment.  On  the  other  hand,  you  are 
bound  by  every  principle  of  honor  to  confess  all  you 
know.  An  innocent  man  is  now  imprisoned,  charged 
with  that  crime  of  which  you  can  point  out  the  perpetra- 
tor." 

The  sailor  had  recovered  his  presence  of  mind,  in  a 
great  measure,  while  Dupin  uttered  these  words  ;  but  his 
original  boldness  of  bearing  was  all  gone. 

"  So  help  me  God,"  said  he,  after  a  brief  pause,  "  I 
will  tell  you  all  I  know  about  this  affair ;  but  I  do  not 
expect  you  to  believe  one  half  I  say,  —  I  would  be  a  fool 
indeed  if  I  did.  Still,  I  am  innocent,  and  I  will  make  a 
clean  breast  if  I  die  for  it." 

What  he  stated  was,  in  substance,  this.  He  had  late- 
ly made  a  voyage  to  the  Indian  Archipelago.  A  party, 
of  which  he  formed  one,  landed  at  Borneo,  and  passed 
into  the  interior  on  an  excursion  of  pleasure.  He  and  a 
companion  had  captured  the  Ourang-Outang.  This  com- 
panion dying,  the  animal  fell  into  his  own  exclusive  pos- 
session. After  great  trouble,  occasioned  by  the  intract- 
able ferocity  of  his  captive  during  the  home  voyage,  he 
at  length  succeeded  in  lodging  it  safely  at  his  own  resi- 
dence in  Paris,  where,  not  to  attract  toward  himself  the 
unpleasant  curiosity  of  his  neighbors,  he  kept  it  carefully 
secluded,  until  such  time  as  it  should  recover  from  a 
wound  in  the  foot,  received  from  a  splinter  on  board 
ship.  His  ultimate  design  was  to  sell  it. 

Returning  home  from  some  sailors'  frolic  on  the  flight, 


52  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

or  rather  in  the  morning,  of  the  murder,  he  found  the 
beast  occupying  his  own  bedroom,  into  which  it  had 
broken  from  a  closet  adjoining,  where  it  had  been,  as 
was  thought,  securely  confined.  Razor  in  hand  and  fully 
lathered,  it  was  sitting  before  a  looking-glass,  attempting 
the  operation  of  shaving,  in  which  it  had  no  doubt  pre- 
viously watched  its  master  through  the  keyhole  of  the 
closet.  Terrified  at  the  sight  of  so  dangerous  a  weapon 
in  the  possession  of  an  animal  so  ferocious,  and  so  well 
able  to  use  it,  the  man  for  some  moments  was  at  a  loss 
what  to  do.  He  had  been  accustomed,  however,  to  quiet 
the  creature,  even  in  its  fiercest  moods,  by  the  use  of  the 
whip,  and  to  this  he  now  resorted.  Upon  sight  of  it,  the 
Ourang-Outang  sprang  at  once  through  the  door  of  the 
chamber,  down  the  stairs,  and  thence,  through  a  window, 
unfortunately  open,  into  the  street. 

The  Frenchman  followed  in  despair,  the  ape,  razor 
still  in  hand,  occasionally  stopping  to  look  back  and 
gesticulate  at  its  pursuer,  until  the  latter  had  nearly 
come  up  with  it.  It  then  again  made  off.  In  this  man- 
ner the  chase  continued  for  a  long  time.  The  streets 
were  profoundly  quiet,  as  it  was  nearly  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  In  passing  down  an  alley  in  the  rear  of 
the  Rue  Morgue,  the  fugitive's  attention  was  arrested 
by  a  light  gleaming  from  the  open  window  of  Madame 
L'Espanaye's  chamber,  in  the  fourth  story  of  her  house. 
Rushing  to  the  building,  it  perceived  the  lightning-rod, 
clambered  up  with  inconceivable  agility,  grasped  the 
shutter,  which  was  thrown  fully  back  against  the  wall, 
and,  by  its  means,  swung  itself  directly  upon  the  head- 
board of  the  bed.  The  whole  feat  did  not  occupy  a 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  EUE  MORGUE.   53 

minute.  The  shutter  was  kicked  open  again  by  the 
Ourang-Outang  as  it  entered  the  room. 

The  sailor,  in  the  mean  time,  was  both  rejoiced  and 
perplexed.  He  had  strong  hopes  of  now  recapturing  the 
brute,  as  it  could  scarcely  escape  from  the  trap  into 
which  it  had  ventured,  except  by  the  rod,  where  it  might 
be  intercepted  as  it  came  down.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  was  much  cause  for  anxiety  as  to  what  it  might  do 
in  the  house.  This  latter  reflection  urged  the  man  still 
to  follow  the  fugitive.  A  lightning-rod  is  ascended 
without  difficulty,  especially  by  a  sailor;  but,  when  he 
had  arrived  as  high  as  the  window,  which  lay  far  to  his 
left,  his  career  was  stopped ;  the  most  that  he  could 
accomplish  was  to  reach  over  so  as  to  obtain  a  glimpse 
of  the  interior  of  the  room.  At  this  glimpse  he  nearly 
fell  from  his  hold  through  excess  of  horror.  Now  it  was 
that  those  hideous  shrieks  arose  upon  the  night,  which 
had  startled  from  slumber  the  inmates  of  the  Rue 
Morgue.  Madame  L'Espanaye  and  her  daughter,  hab- 
ited in  their  night-clothes,  had  apparently  been  occupied 
in  arranging  some  papers  in  the  iron  chest  already  men- 
tioned, which  had  been  wheeled  into  the  middle  of  the 
room.  It  was  open,  and  its  contents  lay  beside  it  on  the 
floor.  The  victims  must  have  been  sitting  with  their 
backs  toward  the  window ;  and,  from  the  time  elapsing 
between  the  ingress  of  the  beast  and  the  screams,  it 
seems  probable  that  it  was  not  immediately  perceived. 
The  flapping-to  of  the  shutter  would  naturally  have  been 
attributed  to  the  wind. 

As  the  sailor  looked  in,  the  gigantic  animal  had  seized 
Madame  L'Espanaye  by  the  hair  (which  was  loose,  as 


54  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

she  had  been  combing  it)  and  was  flourishing  the  razor 
about  her  face,  in  imitation  of  the  motions  of  a  barber. 
The  daughter  lay  prostrate  and  motionless;  she  had 
swooned.  The  screams  and  struggles  of  the  old  lady 
(during  which  the  hair  was  torn  from  her  head)  had  the 
effect  of  changing  the  probably  pacific  purposes  of  the 
Ourang-Outang  into  those  of  wrath.  With  one  deter- 
mined sweep  of  its  muscular  arm  it  nearly  severed  her 
head  from  her  body.  The  sight  of  blood  inflamed  its 
anger  into  frenzy.  Gnashing  its  teeth,  and  flashing 
fire  from  its  eyes,  it  flew  upon  the  body  of  the  girl, 
and  embedded  its  fearful  talons  in  her  throat,  retaining 
its  grasp  until  she  expired.  Its  wandering  and  wild 
glances  fell  at  this  moment  upon  the  head  of  the  bed, 
over  which  the  face  of  its  master,  rigid  with  horror,  was 
just  discernible.  The  fury  of  the  beast,  which  no  doubt 
bore  still  in  mind  the  dreaded  whip,  was  instantly  con- 
verted into  fear.  Conscious  of  having  deserved  punish- 
ment, it  seemed  desirous  of  concealing  its  bloody  deeds, 
and  skipped  about  the  chamber  in  an  agony  of  nervous 
agitation,  throwing  down  and  breaking  the  furniture  as 
it  moved,  and  dragging  the  bed  from  the  bedstead.  In 
conclusion,  it  seized  first  the  corpse  of  the  daughter,  and 
thrust  it  up  the  chimney,  as  it  was  found ;  then  that  of 
the  old  lady,  which  it  immediately  hurled  through  the 
window  headlong. 

As  the  ape  approached  the  casement  with  its  mutilated 
burden,  the  sailor  shrank  aghast  to  the  rod,  and,  rather 
gliding  than  clambering  down  it,  hurried  at  once  home, 
—  dreading  the  consequences  of  the  butchery,  and  gladly 
abandoning,  in  bis  terror,  all  solicitude  about  the  fate 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE.    55 

of  the  Ourang-Outang.  The  words  heard  by  the  party 
upon  the  staircase  were  the  Frenchman's  exclamations 
of  horror  and  affright,  commingled  with  the  fiendish  jab- 
berings  of  the  brute. 

I  have  scarcely  anything  to  add.  The  Ourang-Outang 
must  have  escaped  from  the  chamber,  by  the  rod,  just 
before  the  breaking  of  the  door.  It  must  have  closed 
the  window  as  it  passed  through  it.  It  was  subsequently 
caught  by  the  owner  himself,  who  obtained  for  it  a  very 
large  sum  at  the  Jardin  des  Plantes.  Le  Bon  was  in- 
stantly released,  upon  our  narration  of  the  circumstances 
(with  some  comments  from  Dupin)  at  the  bureau  of  the 
Prefect  of  Police.  This  functionary,  however  well  dis- 
posed to  my  friend,  could  not  altogether  conceal  his 
chagrin  at  the  turn  which  affairs  had  taken,  and  was  fain 
to  indulge  in  a  sarcasm  or  two,  about  the  propriety  of 
every  person's  minding  his  own  business. 

"  Let  him  talk,"  said  Dupin,  who  had  not  thought  it 
necessary  to  reply.  "  Let  him  discourse ;  it  will  ease  his 
conscience.  I  am  satisfied  with  having  defeated  him  in 
his  own  castle.  Nevertheless,  that  he  failed  in  the  solu- 
tion of  this  mystery  is  by  no  means  that  matter  for  won- 
der which  he  supposes  it;  for,  in  truth,  our  friend  the 
Prefect  is  somewhat  too  cunning  to  be  profound.  In  his 
wisdom  is  no  stamen.  It  is  all  head  and  no  body,  like 
the  pictures  of  the  goddess  Laverna ;  or,  at  best,  all 
hsad  and  shoulders,  like  a  codfish.  But  he  is  a  good 
creature  after  all.  I  like  him  especially  for  one  master 
stroke  of  cant,  by  which  he  has  attained  his  reputation 
for  ingenuity.  I  mean  the  way  he  has  de  nier  ce  qui 
est,  et  ffexpliquer  ce  qui  n'est  pas" 


THE   LAUSON   TKAGEDY. 

BY  j.  w.  DEFOREST. 

UPID  and  Psyche!  The  young  man  and  the 
young  woman  who  are  in  love  with  each  other ! 
The  couple  which  is  constantly  vanishing  and 
constantly  reappearing ;  which  has  filled  millions  of  vari- 
ous situations,  and  yet  is  always  the  same  ;  symbolizing, 
and  one  might  almost  say  embodying,  the  doctrine  of  the 
transmigration  of  souls ;  acting  a  drama  of  endless  repe- 
titions, with  innumerable  spectators ! 

What  would  the  story-reading  world  —  yes,  and  what 
would  the  great  world  of  humanity  —  do  without  these 
two  figures  ?  They  are  more  lasting,  they  are  more 
important,  and  they  are  more  fascinating  than  even  the 
crowned  and  laurelled  images  of  heroes  and  sages.  When 
men  shall  have  forgotten  Alexander  and  Socrates,  Napo- 
leon and  Humboldt,  they  will  still  gather  around  this 
imperishable  group,  the  youth  and  the  girl  who  are  in 
love.  Without  them  our  kind  would  cease  to  be ;  at 
one  time  or  another  we  are  all  of  us  identified  with  them 
in  spirit ;  thus  both  reason  and  sympathy  cause  us  to  be 
interested  in  their  million-fold  repeated  story. 


THE    LAUSON    TRAGEDY.  57 

We  have  the  two  before  us.  The  girl,  dark  and  dark- 
eyed,  with  Oriental  features,  and  an  expression  which 
one  is  tempted  to  describe  by  some  such  epithet  as  impe- 
rial, is  Bessie  Barron,  the  orphan  granddaughter  of  Squire 
Thomas  Lauson  of  Barham,  in  Massachusetts.  The  youth, 
pale,  chestnut-haired,  and  gray-eyed,  with  a  tall  and  large 
and  muscular  build,  is  Henry  Foster,  not  more  than  twen- 
ty-seven years  old,  yet  already  a  professor  in  the  scientific 
department  of  the  university  of  Hampstead.  They  are 
standing  on  the  edge  of  a  rocky  precipice  some  seventy  feet 
in  depth,  from  the  foot  of  which  a  long  series  of  grassy 
slopes  descends  into  a  wide,  irregular  valley,  surrounded 
by  hills  that  almost  deserve  the  name  of  mountains.  In 
the  distance  there  are  villages,  the  nearest  fully  visible 
even  to  its  most  insignificant  buildings,  others  show- 
ing only  a  few  white  gleams  through  the  openings  of 
their  elms,  and  others  still  distinguishable  by  merely  a 
spire. 

There  has  been  talk  such  as  affianced  couples  indulge 
in ;  we  must  mention  this  for  the  sake  of  truth,  and  we 
must  omit  it  in  mercy.  "  Lovers,"  declares  a  critic  who 
has  weight  with  us,  "  are  habitually  insipid,  at  least  to 
us  married  people."  It  was  a  man  who  said  that ;  no 
•woman,  it  is  believed,  could  utter  such  a  condemnation 
of  her  own  heart :  no  woman  ever  quite  loses  her  inter- 
est  in  the  drama  of  love-making.  But  out  of  regard  to 
such  males  as  have  drowned  their  sentimentality  in  mar- 
riage we  will,  for  the  present,  pass  over  the  words  of 
tenderness  and  devotion,  and  only  listen  when  Professor 
Foster  becomes  philosophical. 

"  What  if  I  should  throw  myself  down  here  ?  "  said 
3* 


58  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Bessie  Barren,  after  a  long  look  over  the  precipice; 
meanwhile  holding  fast  to  a  guardian  arm. 

"  You  would  commit  suicide,"  was  the  reply  of  a 
man  whom  we  must  admit  to  have  been  accurately  in- 
formed concerning  the  nature  of  actions  like  the  one 
specified. 

Slightly  disappointed  at  not  hearing  the  appeal,  "  O 
my  darling,  don't  think  of  such  a  thing !  "  Bessie  re- 
mained silent  a  moment,  wondering  if  she  were  silly  or 
he  cold-hearted.  Did  she  catch  a  glimmering  of  the  fact 
that  men  do  not  crave  small  sensations  as  women  do, 
and  that  the  man  before  her  was  a  specially  rational 
being  because  he  had  been  trained  in  the  sublime  logic 
of  the  laws  of  nature  ?  Doubtful :  the  two  sexes  are 
profoundly  unlike  in  mental  action;  they  must  study 
each  other  long  before  they  can  fully  understand  each 
other. 

"  I  suppose  I  should  be  dreadfully  punished  for  it," 
she  went  on,  her  thoughts  turning  to  the  world  beyond 
death,  that  world  which  trembling  faith  sees,  and  which 
is,  therefore,  visible  to  woman. 

"  I  am  not  sure,"  boldly  admitted  the  Professor,  who 
had  been  educated  in  Germany. 

In  order  to  learn  something  of  the  character  of  this 
young  man,  we  must  permit  him  to  jabber  his  nonde- 
script ideas  for  a  little,  even  though  we  are  thereby 
stumbled  and  wearied. 

"  Not  sure  ?  "  queried  Bessie.  "  How  do  you  mean  P 
Don't  you  think  suicide  sinful  ?  Don't  you  think  sin 
will  be  punished  ?  " 

She  spoke  with  eagerness,  dreading  to  find  her  lover 


THE    LAUSON   TRAGEDY.  59 

0 

not  orthodox,  —  a  woful  stigma  in  Barbara  on  lovers, 
and  indeed  on  all  men  whatever. 

"Admitting  thus  much,  I  don't  know  how  far  you 
would  be  a  free  agent  in  the  act,"  lectured  the  philoso- 
pher. "  I  don't  know  where  free  agency  begins  or 
ends.  Indeed,  I  am  so  puzzled  by  this  question  as  to 
doubt  whether  there  is  such  a  condition  as  free  agency." 

"  No  such  thing  as  free  agency  ?  "  wondered  Bessie. 
"  Then  what  ?  " 

"  See  here.  Out  of  thirty-eight  millions  of  French- 
men a  fixed  number  commit  suicide  every  year.  Every 
year  just  so  many  Frenchmen  out  of  a  million  kill  them- 
selves. Does  that  look  like  free  agency,  or  does  it  look 
like  some  unknown  influence,  some  general  rule  of  depres- 
sion, some  law  of  nature,  which  affects  Frenchmen,  and 
which  they  cannot  resist  ?  The  individual  seems  to  be 
free,  at  every  moment  of  his  life,  to  do  as  he  chooses. 
But  what  leads  him  to  choose  ?  Born  instincts,  condi- 
tions of  health,  surroundings,  circumstances.  Do  not 
the  circumstances  so  govern  his  choice  that  he  cannot 
choose  differently  ?  Moreover,  is  he  really  an  individ- 
ual ?  Or  is  he  only  a  fraction  of  a  great  unity,  the 
human  race,  and  directed  by  its  current  ?  We  speak  of 
a  drop  of  water  as  if  it  were  an  individuality ;  but  it  can- 
not swim  against  the  stream  to  which  it  belongs ;  it  is 
not  free.  Is  not  the  individual  man  in  the  same  condi- 
tion? There  are  questions  there  which  I  cannot  an- 
swer ;  and  until  I  can  answer  them  I  cannot  answer 
your  question." 

We  have  not  repeated  without  cause  these  bold  and 
crude  speculations.  It  is  necessary  to  show  that  Foster 


60  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

was  what  was  called  in  Barham  a  free-thinker,  in  order 
to  account  for  efforts  which  were  made  to  thwart  his 
marriage  with  Bessie  Barren,  and  for  prejudices  which 
aided  to  work  a  stern  drama  into  his  life. 

The  girl  listened  and  pondered.  She  tried  to  follow 
her  lover  over  the  seas  of  thought  upon  which  he  walked ; 
but  the  venture  was  beyond  her  powers,  and  she  returned 
to  the  pleasant  firm  land  of  a  subject  nearer  her  heart. 

"  Are  you  thinking  of  me  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  low  tone, 
and  with  an  appealing  smile. 

"  No,"  he  smiled  back.  "  I  must  own  that  I  was  not. 
But  I  ought  to  have  been.  I  do  think  of  you  a  great  deal." 

"  More  than  I  deserve  ?  "  she  queried,  still  suspicious 
that  she  was  not  sufficiently  prized  to  satisfy  her  long- 
ings for  affection. 

He  laughed  outright.  "  No,  not  more  than  you  de- 
serve ;  not  as  much  as  you  deserve ;  you  deserve  a  great 
deal.  How  many  times  are  you  going  to  ask  me  these 
questions  ?  " 

"  Every  day.  A  hundred  times  a  day.  Shall  you  get 
tired  of  them  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  But  what  does  it  mean  ?  Do  you 
doubt  me  ?  " 

"  No.  But  I  want  to  hear  you  say  that  you  think  of 
me,  over  and  over  again.  It  gives  me  such  pleasure  to 
hear  you  say  it !  It  is  such  a  great  happiness  that  it 
seems  as  if  it  were  my  only  happiness." 

Before  Bessie  had  fallen  in  love  with  Foster,  and  espe- 
cially before  her  engagement  to  him,  there  had  been  a 
time  when  she  had  talked  more  to  the  satisfaction' of  the 
male  critic.  But  now  her  whole  soul  was  absorbed  in 


THE    LAUSON   TRAGEDY.  61 

the  work  of  loving.  She  had  no  thought  for  any  other 
subject ;  none,  at  least,  while  with  him.  Her  whole 
appearance  and  demeanor  shows  how  completely  she  is 
occupied  by  this  master  passion  of  woman.  A  smile 
seems  to  exhale  constantly  from  her  face  ;  if  it  is  not  vis- 
ible on  her  lips,  nor,  indeed,  anywhere,  still  you  perceive 
it;  if  it  is  no  more  to  be  seen  than  the  perfume*  of  a 
flower,  still  you  are  conscious  of  it.  It  is  no  figurative 
exaggeration  to  say  that  there  is  within  her  soul  an 
incessant  music,  like  that  of  waltzes,  and  of  all  sweet, 
tender,  joyous  melodies.  If  you  will  watch  her  care- 
fully, and  if  you  have  the  delicate  senses  of  sympathy, 
you  also  will  hear  it. 

Are  we  wrong  in  declaring  that  the  old,  old  story  of 
clinging  hearts  is  more  fascinating  from  age  to  age,  as 
human  thoughts  become  purer  and  human  feelings  more 
delicate?  We  believe  that  love,  like  all  other  things 
earthly,  is  subject  to  the  progresses  of  the  law  of  evolu- 
tion, and  grows  with  the  centuries  to  be  a  more  various 
and  exquisite  source  of  happiness.  This  girl  is  more  in 
love  than  her  grandmother,  who  made  butter  and  other- 
wise wrought  laboriously  with  her  own  hands,  had  ever 
found  it  possible  to  be.  An  organization  refined  by  the 
manifold  touch  of  high  civilization,  an  organization 
brought  to  the  keenest  sensitiveness  by  poetry  and  fic- 
tion and  the  spiritualized  social  breath  of  our  times,  an 
organization  in  which  muscle  is  lacking  and  nerve  over- 
abundant, she  is  capable  of  an  affection  which  has  the 
wings  of  imagination,  which  can  soar  above  the  ordinary 
plane  of  belief,  which  is  more  than  was  once  human. 

Consider  for  an  instant  what  an  elaboration  of  culture 


62  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

the  passion  of  love  may  have  reached  in  this  child.  She 
can  invest  the  man  whom  she  has  accepted  as  monarch 
of  her  soul  with  the  perfections  of  the  heroes  of  history 
and  of  fiction.  She  can  prophesy  for  him  a  future  which 
a  hundred  years  since  was  not  realizable  upon  this  conti- 
nent. Out  of  her  own  mind  she  can  draw  shining  rai- 
ment of  success  for  him  which  shall  be  visible  across 
oceans,  and  crowns  of  fame  which  shall  not  be  dimmed 
by  centuries.  She  can  love  him  for  superhuman  loveli- 
ness which  she  has  power  to  impute  to  him,  and  for 
victories  which  she  is  magician  enough  to  strew  in  antici- 
pation beneath  his  feet.  It  is  not  extravagance,  it  is 
even  nothing  but  the  simplest  and  most  obvious  truth,  to 
say  that  there  have  been  periods  in  the  world's  history, 
without  going  back  to  the  cycles  of  the  troglodyte  and 
the  lake-dweller,  when  such  love  would  have  been  beyond 
the  capabilities  of  humanity. 

It  must  be  understood,  by  the  way,  that  Bessie  was 
not  bred  amid  the  sparse,  hard-worked,  and  scantily  cul- 
tured population  of  Barham,  and  that,  until  the  death  of 
her  parents,  two  years  before  the  opening  of  this  story, 
she  had  been  a  plant  of  the  stimulating,  hot-bed  life  of  a 
city.  Into  this  bucolic  land  she  had  brought  suscep- 
tibilities which  do  not  often  exist  there,  and  a  craving 
for  excitements  of  sentiment  which  does  not  often  find 
gratification  there.  Consequently  the  first  youth  who 
in  any  wise  resembled  the  ideal  of  manhood  which  she 
had  set  up  in  her  soul  found  her  ready  to  fall  into  his 
grasp,  to  believe  in  him  as  in  a  deity,  and  to  look  to  him 
for  miracles  of  love  and  happiness. 

Well,  these  two  interesting  idiots,  as  the  unsympathiz- 


THE    LAUSON   TBAGEDY.  63 

ing  observer  might  call  them,  have  turned  their  backs 
on  the  precipice  and  are  walking  toward  the  girl's  home. 
They  had  not  gone  far  before  Bessie  uttered  a  speech 
which  excited  Harry's  profound  amazement,  and  which 
will  probably  astonish  every  young  man  who  has  not  as 
yet  made  his  conquests.  After  looking  at  him  long  and 
steadfastly,  she  said :  "  How  is  it  possible  that  you  can 
care  for  me  ?  I  don't  see  what  you  find  in  me  to  make 
me  worthy  of  your  admiration." 

How  often  such  sentiments  have  been  felt,  and  how 
often  also  they  have  been  spoken,  by  beings  whose  hearts 
have  been  bowed  by  the  humility  of  strong  affection ! 
Perhaps  women  are  less  likely  to  give  them  speech  than 
men ;  but  it  is  only  because  they  are  more  trammelled 
by  an  education  of  reserve,  and  by  inborn  delicacy  and 
timidity ;  it  is  not  because  they  feel  them  less.  This 
girl,  however,  was  so  frank  in  nature,  and  so  earnest  and 
eager  in  her  feelings,  that  she  could  not  but  give  forth 
the  aroma  of  loving  meekness  that  was  in  her  soul. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Foster,  in  his  innocent 
surprise.  "  See  nothing  to  admire  in  you  !  " 

"  0,  you  are  so  much  wiser  than  I,  and  so  much 
nobler !  "  she  replied.  "  It  is  just  because  you  are  good, 
because  you  have  the  best  heart  that  ever  was,  that  you 
care  for  me.  You  found  me  lonely  and  unhappy,  and  so 
you  pitied  me  and  took  charge  of  me." 

"  O  no  !  "  he  began ;  but  we  will  not  repeat  bis  prot- 
estations; we  will  just  say  that  he,  too,  was  properly 
humble. 

"  Have  you  really  been  lonely  and  sad  ?  "  he  went  on, 
curious  to  know  every  item  of  her  life,  every  beat  of  her 
heart. 


64  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  Does  that  old  house  look  like  a  paradise  to  you  ?  " 
she  asked,  pointing  to  the  dwelling  of  Squire  Lauson. 

"  It  is  n't  very  old,  and  it  does  n't  look  very  horrible," 
he  replied,  a  little  anxious  as  he  thought  of  his  future 
housekeeping.  "  Perhaps  ours  will  not  be  so  fine  a 
one." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  that,"  declared  Bessie.  "  Our 
house  will  be  charming,  even  if  it  has  but  one  story,  and 
that  under  ground.  But  this  one  !  You  don't  see  it  with 
ray  eyes ;  you  have  n't  lived  in  it." 

"  Is  it  haunted  ?  "  inquired  Foster,  of  whom  we  must 
say  that  he  did  not  believe  in  ghosts,  and,  in  fact,  scorned 
them  with  all  the  scorn  of  a  philosopher. 

"  Yes,  and  by  people  who  are  not  yet  buried,  —  people 
who  call  themselves  alive." 

The  subject  was  a  delicate  one  probably,  for  Bessie 
said  no  more  concerning  it,  and  Poster  considerately  re- 
frained from  further  questions.  There  was  one  thing  on 
which  this  youth  especially  prided  himself,  and  that  was 
on  being  a  gentleman  in  every  sense  possible  to  a  repub- 
lican. Because  his  father  had  been  a  judge,  and  his 
grandfather  and  great-grandfather  clergymen,  he  Con- 
ceived that  he  belonged  to  a  patrician  class,  similar  to 
that  which  Englishmen  style  "  the  untitled  nobility,"  and 
that  he  was  bound  to  exhibit  as  many  chivalrous  virtues 
as  if  his  veins  throbbed  with  the  blood  of  the  Black 
Prince.  Although  not  combative,  and  not  naturally  reck- 
less of  pain  and  death,  he  would  have  faced  Heenan  and 
Morrissey  together  in  fight,  if  convinced  that  his  duty 
as  a  gentleman  demanded  it.  Similarly  he  felt  himself 
obliged  "to  do  the  handsome  thing"  in  money  matters; 


THE    LAUSON   TRAGEDY.  65 

to  accept,  for  instance,  without  haggling,  such  a  salary 
as  was  usual  in  his  profession ;  to  be  as  generous  to 
waiters  as  if  he  were  a  millionnaire.  Furthermore,  he 
must  be  magnanimous  to  all  that  great  multitude  who 
were  his  inferiors,  and  particularly  must  he  be  fastidi- 
ously decorous  and  tender  in  his  treatment  of  women. 
All  these  things  he  did  or  refrained  from  doing,  not  only 
out  of  good  instincts  towards  others,  but  out  of  respect 
for  himself. 

On  the  whole,  he  was  a  worthy  and  even  admirable 
specimen  of  the  genus  young  man.  No  doubt  he  was 
conceited ;  he  often  offended  people  by  his  bumptious- 
ness of  opinion  and  hauteur  of  manner;  he  rather  de- 
pressed the  human  race  by  the  severity  with  which  he 
classed  this  one  and  that  one  as  "  no  gentleman,"  because 
of  slight  defects  in  etiquette ;  he  considerably  amused 
older  and  wearier  minds  by  the  confidence  with  which  he 
settled  vexed  questions  of  several  thousand  years'  stand- 
ing ;  but  with  all  these  faults,  he  was  a  better  and  wiser 
and  more  agreeable  fellow  than  one  often  meets  at  his 
age ;  he  was  a  youth  whom  man  could  respect  and  wo- 
man adore.  To  noble  souls  it  must  be  agreeable,  I  think, 
to  see  him  at  the  present  moment,  anxious  to  know  pre- 
cisely what  sorrows  had  clouded  the  life  of  his  betrothed 
in  the  old  house  before  him,  and  yet  refraining  from  ques- 
tioning her  on  the  alluring  subject,  "  because  he  was  a 
gentleman." 

The  house  itself  kept  its  secret  admirably.  It  had  not 
a  signature  of  character  about  it ;  it  was  as  non-commit- 
tal as  an  available  candidate  for  the  Presidency ;  it  ex- 
hibited the  plain,  unornamental,  unpoetic  reserve  of  a 


66  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Yankee  Puritan.  Whether  it  were  a  stage  for  comedy 
or  tragedy,  whether  it  were  a  palace  for  happy  souls  or 
a  prison  for  afflicted  ones,  it  gave  not  even  a  darkling 
hint. 

A  sufficiently  spacious  edifice,  but  low  of  stature  and 
with  a  long  slope  of  back  roof,  it  reminded  one  of  a 
stocky  and  round-shouldered  old  farmer,  like  those  who 
daily  trudged  by  it  to  and  from  the  market  of  Hamp- 
stead,  hawing  and  geeing  their  fat  cattle  with  lean,  hard 
voices.  A  front  door,  sheltered  by  a  small  portico, 
opened  into  a  hall  which  led  straight  through  the  build- 
ing, with  a  parlor  and  bedroom  on  one  side,  and  a  din- 
ing-room and  kitchen  on  the  other.  In  the  rear  was 
a  low  wing  serving  as  wash-house,  lumber-room,  and 
wood-shed.  The  white  clapboards  and  green  blinds  were 
neither  freshly  painted  nor  rusty,  but  just  sedately 
weather-worn.  The  grounds,  the  long  woodpiles,  the 
barn  and  its  adjuncts,  were  all  in  that  state  of  decent 
slovenliness  which  prevails  amid  the  more  rustic  farming 
population  of  New  England.  On  the  whole,  the  place 
looked  like  the  abode  of  one  who  had  made  a  fair  for- 
tune by  half  a  century  or  more  of  laborious  and  economi- 
cal though  not  enlightened  agriculture. 

"  I  must  leave  you  now,"  said  Foster,  when  the  two 
reached  the  gate  of  the  " front-yard " ;  "I  must  get 
back  to  my  work  in  Hampstead." 

"  And  you  won't  come  in  for  a  minute  ? "  pleaded 
Bessie. 

"  You  know  that  I  would  be  glad  to  come  in  and  stay 
in  for  ever  and  ever.  It  seems  now  as  if  life  were  made 
for  nothing  but  talking  to  you.  But  my  fellow-men  no 


THE    LAUSON    TRAGEDY.  67 

doubt  think  differently.  There  are  such  things  as  lec- 
tures, and  I  must  prepare  a  few  of  them.  I  really  have 
pressing  work  to  do." 

What  he  furthermore  had  in  his  mind  was,  "I  am 
bound  as  a  gentleman  to  do  it  "  ;  but  he  refrained  from 
saying  that :  he  was  conscious  that  he  sometimes  said  it 
too  much ;  little  by  little  he  was  learning  that  he  was 
bumptious,  and  that  he  ought  not  to  be. 

"  And  you  will  come  to-morrow  ?  "  still  urged  Bessie, 
grasping  at  the  next  best  thing  to  to-day. 

"  Yes,  I  shall  walk  out.  This  driving  every  day  won't 
answer,  on  a  professor's  salary,"  he  added,  swelling  his 
chest  over  this  grand  confession  of  poverty.  "  Besides, 
I  need  the  exercise." 

"  How  good  of  you  to  walk  so  far  merely  to  see  me ! " 
exclaimed  the  humble  little  beauty. 

Until  he  came  again  she  brooded  over  the  joys  of  being 
his  betrothed,  and  over  the  future,  the  far  greater  joy  of 
being  his  wife.  Was  not  this  high  hope  in  love,  this  con- 
fidence in  the  promises  of  marriage,  out  of  place  in  Bes- 
sie ?  She  has  daily  before  her,  in  the  mutual  sayings  and 
doings  of  her  grandfather  and  his  spouse,  a  woful  instance 
of  the  jarring  way  in  which  the  chariot-wheels  of  wedlock 
may  run.  Squire  Tom  Lauson  does  not  get  on  angeli- 
cally with  his'  second  wife.  It  is  reported  that  she  finds 
existence  with  him  the  greatest  burden  that  she  has  ever 
yet  borne,  and  that  she  testifies  to  her  disgust  with  it  in 
a  fashion  which  is  at  times  startlingly  dramatic.  If  we 
arrive  at  the  Lauson  house  on  the  day  following  the  dia- 
logue which  has  been  reported,  we  shall  witness  one  of 
her  most  effective  exhibitions. 


68  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

It  is  raining  violently ;  an  old-fashioned  blue-light  Pu- 
ritan thunder-storm  is  raging  over  the  Barham  hills  ;  the 
blinding  flashes  are  instantaneously  followed  by  the  deaf- 
ening peals ;  the  air  is  full  of  sublime  terror  and  danger. 
But  to  Mrs.  Squire  Lawson  the  tempest  is  so  far  from 
horrible  that  it  is  even  welcome,  friendly,  and  alluring, 
compared  with  her  daily  showers  of  conjugal  misery. 
She  has  just  finished  one  of  those  frequent  contests  with 
her  husband,  which  her  sickly  petulance  perpetually 
forces  her  to  seek,  and  which  nevertheless  drive  her 
frantic.  In  her  wild,  yet  weak  rage  and  misery,  death 
seems  a  desirable  refuge.  Out  of  the  open  front  door 
she  rushes,  out  into  the  driving  rain  and  blinding  light- 
ning, lifts  her  hands  passionately  toward  Heaven,  and 
prays  for  a  flash  to  strike  her  dead. 

After  twice  shrieking  this  horrible  supplication,  she 
dropped  her  arms  with  a  gesture  of  sullen  despair,  and 
stalked  slowly,  reeking  wet,  into  the  house.  In  the  hall, 
looking  out  upon  this  scene  of  demoniacal  possession,  sat 
Bessie  Lauson  and  her  maiden  aunt,  Miss  Mercy  Lauson, 
while  behind  them,  coming  from  an  inner  room,  appeared 
the  burly  figure  of  the  old  Squire.  As  Mrs.  Lauson 
passed  the  two  women,  they  drew  a  little  aside  with  a 
sort  of  shrinking  which  arose  partly  from  a  desire  to 
avoid  her  dripping  garments,  and  partly  from  that  awe 
with  which  most  of  us  regard  ungovernable  passion.  The 
Squire,  on  the  contrary,  met  his  wife  with  a  sarcastic 
twinkle  of  his  grim  gray  eyes,  and  a  scoff  which  had  the 
humor  discoverable  in  the  contrast  between  total  indiffer- 
ence and  furious  emotion. 

"  Closed  your  camp-meeting  early,  Mrs.  Lauson,"  said 


THE    LAUSON   TRAGEDY.  69 

the  old  man ;  "  can't  expect  a  streak  of  lightning  for  such 
a  short  service." 

A  tormentor  who  wears  a  smile  inflicts  a  double  agony. 
Mrs.  Lauson  wrung  her  hands,  and  broke  out  in  a  cry  of 
rage  and  anguish  :  "0  Lord,  let  it  strike  me  !  0  Lord, 
let  it  strike  me !  " 

Squire  Lauson  took  a  chair,  crossed  his  thick,  muscu- 
lar legs,  glanced  at  his  wife,  glanced  at  the  levin-seamed 
sky,  and  remarked  with  a  chuckle,  "  I  'm  waiting  to  see 
this  thing  out." 

"Father,  I  say  it's  perfectly  awful,"  remonstrated 
Miss  Mercy  Lauson.  "  Mother,  ain't  you  ashamed  of 
yourself?" 

Miss  Mercy  was  an  old  maid  of  the  grave,  sad,  sickly 
New  England  type.  She  pronounced  her  reproof  in  a 
high,  thin,  passionless  monotone,  without  a  gesture  or  a 
flash  of  expression,  without  glancing  at  the  persons  whom 
she  addressed,  looking  straight  before  her  at  the  wall. 
She  seemed  to  speak  without  emotion,  and  merely  from 
a  stony  sense  of  duty.  It  was  as  if  a  message  had  been 
delivered  by  the  mouth  of  an  automaton. 

Both  the  Squire  and  his  wife  made  some  response,  but 
a  prolonged  crash  of  thunder  drowned  the  feeble  blasphe- 
my of  their  voices,  and  the  moving  of  their  lips  was  like 
a  mockery  of  life,  as  if  the  lips  of  corpses  had  been  stirred 
by  galvanism.  Then,  as  if  impatient  of  hearing  both  man 
and  God,  Mrs.  Lauson  clasped  her  hands  over  her  ears, 
and  fled  away  to  some  inner  room  of  the  shaking  old 
house,  seeking  perhaps  the  little  pity  that  there  is  for  the 
wretched  in  solitude.  The  Squire  remained  seated,  his 
gray  and  horny  fingers  drumming  on  the  arms  of  the 


70  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

chair,  and  his  faded  lips  murmuring  some  inaudible  con- 
versation. 

For  the  wretchedness  of  Mrs.  Lauson  there  was  partial 
cause  in  the  disposition  and  ways  of  her  husband.  Very 
odd  was  the  old  Squire ;  violently  combative  could  he  be 
in  case  of  provocation ;  and  to  those  who  resisted  what 
he  called  his  rightful  authority  he  was  a  tyrant. 

Having  lost  the  wife  whom  he  had  ruled  for  so  many 
years,  and  having  enjoyed  the  serene  but  lonely  empire 
of  widowhood  for  eighteen  months,  he  felt  the  need  of 
some  one  for  some  purpose,  —  perhaps  to  govern.  Once 
resolved  on  a  fresh  spouse,  he  set  about  searching  for 
one  in  a  clear-headed  and  business-like  manner,  as  if  it 
had  been  a  question  of  getting  a  family  horse. 

The  woman  whom  he  finally  received  into  his  flinty 
bosom  was  a  maiden  of  forty-five,  who  had  known  in  her 
youth  the  uneasy  joys  of  many  flirtations,  and  who  had 
marched  through  various  successes  (the  triumphs  of  a 
small  university  town)  to  sit  down  at  last  in  a  life-long 
disappointment.  Regretting  her  past,  dissatisfied  with 
every  present,  demanding  improbabilities  of  the  future, 
eager  still  to  be  flattered  and  worshipped  and  obeyed,  she 
was  wofully  unfitted  for  marriage  with  an  old  man  of 
plain  habits  and  retired  life,  who  was  quite  as  egoistic  as 
herself  and  far  more  combative  and  domineering.  It  was 
soon  a  horrible  thing  to  remember  the  young  lovers  who 
had  gone  long  ago,  but  who,  it  seemed  to  her,  still  adored 
her,  and  to  compare  them  with  this  unsympathizing  mas- 
ter, who  gave  her  no  courtship  nor  tender  reverence,  and 
who  spoke  but  to  demand  submission. 

"In  a  general  way,"  says  a  devout  old  lady  of  my 


THE    LAUSON   TRAGEDY.  71 

acquaintance,  "  Divine  Providence  blesses  second  mar- 
riages." 

With  no  experience  of  my  own  in  this  line,  and  with 
not  a  large  observation  of  the  experience  of  others,  I  am 
nevertheless  inclined  to  admit  that  my  friend  has  the 
right  of  it.  Conceding  the  fact  that  second  marriages 
are  usually  happy,  one  naturally  asks,  Why  is  it  ?  Is  it 
because  a  man  knows  better  how  to  select  a  second  wife  ? 
or  because  he  knows  better  how  to  treat  her  ?  Well  dis- 
posed toward  both  these  suppositions,  I  attach  the  most 
importance  to  the  latter. 

No  doubt  Benedict  chooses  more  thoughtfully  when 
he  chooses  a  second  time ;  no  doubt  he  is  governed  more 
by  judgment  than  in  his  first  courtship,  and  less  by  blind 
impulse ;  no  doubt  he  has  learned  some  love-making  wis- 
dom from  experience.  A  woman  who  will  be  patient 
with  him,  a  woman  who  will  care  well  for  his  household 
affairs  and  for  his  children,  a  woman  who  will  run  stead- 
ily rather  than  showily  in  the  domestic  harness,  —  that  is 
what  he  usually  wants  when  he  goes  sparking  at  forty  or 
fifty. 

But  this  is  not  all  and  not  even  the  half  of  the  expla- 
nation. He  has  acquired  a  knowledge  of  what  woman 
is,  and  a  knowledge  of  what  may  fairly  be  required  of 
her.  He  has  learned  to  put  himself  in  her  place;  to 
grant  her  the  sympathy  which  her  sensitive  heart  needs ; 
to  estimate  the  sufferings  which  arise  from  her  variable 
health ;  in  short,  he  has  learned  to  be  thoughtful  and 
patient  and  merciful.  Moreover,  he  is  apt  to  select  some 
one  who,  like  himself,  has  learned  command  of  temper 
and  moderation  of  expectation  from  the  lessons  of  life. 


72  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

As  he  knows  that  a  glorified  wife  is  impossible  here  be- 
low, so  she  makes  no  strenuous  demand  for  an  angel 
husband. 

But  Squire  Thomas  Lauson  had  married  an  old  maid 
who  had  not  yet  given  up  the  struggle  to  be  a  girl,  and 
who,  in  consequence  of  a  long  and  silly  bellehood,  could 
not  put  up  with  any  form  of  existence  which  was  not  a 
continual  courtship.  Furthermore,  he  himself  was  not  a 
persimmon ;  he  had  not  gathered  sweetness  from  the 
years  which  frosted  his  brow.  An  interestingly  obdurate 
block  of  the  Puritan  granite  of  New  England,  he  was 
almost  as  self-opinionated,  domineering,  pugnacious,  and 
sarcastic  as  he  had  been  at  fifteen.  He  still  had  over- 
much of  the  unripe  spirit  which  plagues  little  boys,  scoffs 
at  girls,  stones  frogs,  drowns  kittens,  and  mutters  domes- 
tic defiances.  If  Mrs.  Lauson  was  skittish  and  fractious, 
he  was  her  full  match  as  a  wife-breaker. 

In  short,  the  Squire  had  not  chosen  wisely ;  he  was 
not  fitted  to  win  a  woman's  heart  by  sympathy  and  jus- 
tice; and  thus  Providence  had  not  blessed  his  second 
marriage. 

We  must  return  now  to  Miss  Mercy  Lauson  and  her 
niece  Bessie.  They  are  alone  once  more,  for  Squire 
Lauson  has  finished  his  sarcastic  mutterings,  and  has 
stumped  away  to  some  other  dungeon  of  the  unhappy  old 
house. 

"  You  see,  Bessie  !  "  said  Miss  Mercy,  after  a  pinching 
of  her  thin  lips  which  was  like  the  biting  of  forceps,  — 
"  you  see  how  married  people  can  live  with  each  other. 
Bickerings  an'  strife !  bickerings  an'  strife  !  But  for  all 
that  you  mean  to  marry  Henry  Foster." 


THE    LAUSON    TRAGEDY.  73 

"We  must  warn  the  reader  not  to  expect  vastness 
of  thought  or  eloquence  of  speech  from  Miss  Mercy. 
Her  narrow-shouldered,  hollow-chested  soul  could  not 
grasp  ideas  of  much  moment,  nor  handle  such  as  she  was 
able  to  grasp  with  any  vigor  or  grace. 

"  I  should  like  to  know,"  returned  Bessie  with  spirit, 
"  if  I  am  not  likely  to  have  my  share  of  bickerings  and 
strife,  if  I  stay  here  and  don't  get  married." 

"  That  depends  upon  how  far  you  control  your  temper, 
Elizabeth." 

"  And  so  it  does  in  marriage,  I  suppose." 

Miss  Mercy  found  herself  involved  in  an  argument, 
when  she  had  simply  intended  to  play  the  part  of  a 
preacher  in  his  pulpit,  warning  and  reproving  without 
being  answered.  She  accepted  the  challenge  in  a  tone 
of  iced  pugnacity,  which  indicated  in  part  a  certain  im- 
perfect habit  of  self-control,  and  in  part  the  unrestrainable 
peevishness  of  a  chronic  invalid. 

"  I  don't  say  folks  will  necessarily  be  unhappy  in  mer- 
ridge,"  she  went  on.  "  Merridge  is  a  Divine  ord'nance, 
an'  I  'm  obleeged  to  respect  it  as  such.  I  do,  I  suppose, 
respect  it  more  'n  some  who  've  entered  into  it.  But 
merridge,  to  obtain  the  Divine  blessing,  must  not  be 
a  yoking  with  unbelievers.  There  's  the  trouble  with 
father's  wife ;  she  ain't  a  professor.  There,  too,  's 
the  trouble  with  Henry  Foster ;  he  's  not  one  of  those 
who  've  chosen  the  better  part.  I  want  you  to  think  it 
all  over  in  soberness  of  sperrit,  Elizabeth." 

"  It  is  the  only  thing  you  know  against  him,"  replied 
the  girl,  flushing  with  the  anger  of  outraged  affection. 

"  No,  it  ain't.     He  's  brung  home  strange  ways  from 

VOL.  III.  4 


74  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

abroad.  He  smokes  an'  drinks  beer  an'  plays  cards ;  an' 
his  form  seldom  darkens  the  threshold  of  the  sanctuary. 
Elizabeth,  I  must  be  plain  with  you  on  this  vital  subject. 
I  'm  going  to  be  as  plain  with  you  as  your  own  conscience 
ought  to  be.  I  see  it 's  no  use  talking  to  you  'bout  duty 
an'  the  life  to  come.  I  must  —  there  's  no  sort  of  doubt 
about  it  —  I  must  bring  the  things  of  this  world  to  bear 
on  you.  You  know  I  've  made  my  will :  I  've  left  every 
cent  of  my  property  to  you,  —  twenty  thousand  dollars  ' 
Well,  if  you  enter  into  merridge  with  that  young  man,  I 
shall  alter  it.  I  ain't  going  to  have  my  money,  —  the 
money  that  my  poor  God-fearing  aunt  left  me,  —  I  ain't 
going  to  have  it  fooled  away  on  card-players  an'  scorners. 
Now  there  it  is,  Elizabeth.  There  's  what  my  duty  tells 
me  to  do,  an'  what  I  shall  do.  Ponder  it  well  an'  take 
your  choice." 

"I  don't  care,"  burst  forth  Bessie,  springing  to  her 
feet.  "  I  shall  tell  him,  and  if  it  makes  no  difference  to 
him,  it  will  make  none  to  me." 

Here  a  creak  in  the  floor  caught  her  ear,  and  turning 
quickly  she  discovered  Henry  Foster.  Entering  the 
house  by  a  side  door,  and  coming  through  a  short  lateral 
passage  to  the  front  hall,  he  had  reached  it  in  time  to 
hear  the  close  df  the  conversation  and  catch  its  entire 
drift.  You  could  see  in  his  face  that  he  had  heard  thus 
much,  for  healthy,  generous,  kindly,  and  cheerful  as  the 
face  usually  was,  it  wore  now  a  confused  and  pained  ex- 
pression. 

"  I  beg  pardon  for  disturbing  you,"  he  said.  "  I  was 
pelted  into  the  house  to  get  out  of  the  shower,  and  I  took 
the  shortest  cut." 


THE    LAUSON    TRAGEDY.  75 

Bessie's  Oriental  visage  flushed  to  a  splendid  crimson, 
and  a  whiter  ashiness  stole  into  the  sallow  cheek  of  Aunt 
Mercy.  The  girl,  quick  and  adroit  as  most  women  are 
in  leaping  out  of  embarrassments,  rushed  into  a  strain 
of  light  conversation.  How  wet  Professor  Foster  was, 
and  would  n't  he  go  and  diy  himself?  What  a  storm  it 
had  been,  and  what  wonderful,  dreadful  thunder  and 
lightning ;  and  how  glad  she  was  that  he  had  come,  for 
it  seemed  as  if  he  were  some  protection. 

"  There  's  only  One  who  can  protect  us,"  murmured 
Aunt  Mercy,  "  either  in  such  seasons  or  any  others." 

"  His  natural  laws  are  our  proper  recourse,"  respect- 
fully replied  Foster,  who  was  religious  too,  in  his  scien- 
tific fashion. 

Bessie  cringed  with  alarm ;  here  was  an  insinuated 
attack  on  her  aunt's  favorite  dogma  of  special  provi- 
dences; the  subject  must  be  pitched  overboard  at 
once. 

"  What  is  the  news  in  Hampstead  ? "  she  asked. 
"  Has  the  town  gone  to  sleep,  as  Barham  has  ?  You 
ought  to  wake  us  up  with  something  amusing." 

"  Jennie  Brown  is  engaged,"  said  Foster.  "  Is  n't  that 
satisfactory  ?  " 

"  O  dear  !  how  many  times  does  that  make  ?  "  laughed 
Bessie.  "  Is  it  a  student  again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  student." 

"  You  ought  to  make  it  a  college  offence  for  students 
to  engage  themselves,"  continued  Bessie.  "  You  know 
that  they  can  hardly  ever  marry,  and  generally  break  the 
girls'  hearts." 

"  Have  they  broken  Jennie  Brown's  ?    She  does  n't 


76  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

believe  it,  nor  her  present  young  man  either.  I  've  no 
doubt  he  thinks  her  as  good  as  new." 

"  I  dare  say.  But  such  things  hurt  girls  in  general, 
and  you  professors  ought  to  see  to  it,  and  I  want  to  know 
why  you  don't.  But  is  that  all  the  news  ?  That 's  such 
a  small  matter !  such  an  old  sort  of  thing !  If  I  had 
come  from  Hampstead,  I  would  have  brought  more  than 
that." 

So  Bessie  rattled  on,  partly  because  she  loved  to  talk 
to  this  admirable  Professor,  but  mainly  to  put  off  the  cri- 
sis which  she  saw  was  coming. 

But  it  was  vain  to  hope  for  clemency,  or  even  for  much 
delay,  from  Aunt  Mercy.  Grim,  unhappy,  peevish  as 
many  invalids  are,  and  impelled  by  a  remorseless  con- 
science, she  was  not  to  be  diverted  from  finishing  with 
Foster  the  horrid  bone  which  she  had  commenced  to  pick 
with  Bessie.  You  could  see  in  her  face  what  kind  of 
thoughts  and  purposes  were  in  her  heart.  She  was  used 
to  quarrelling ;  or,  to  speak  more  strictly,  she  was  used 
to  entertaining  hard  feelings  towards  others ;  but  she  had 
never  learned  to  express  her  bitter  sentiments  frankly. 
Unable  to  destroy  them,  she  had  felt  herself  bound  in  gen- 
eral not  to  utter  them,  and  this  non-utterance  had  grown 
to  be  one  of  her  despotic  and  distressing  "  duties." 
Nothing  could  break  through  her  shyness,  her  reserve, 
her  habit  of  silence,  but  an  emotion  which  amounted  to 
passion ;  and  such  an  emotion  she  was  not  only  unable 
to  conceal,  but  she  was  also  unable  to  exhibit  it  either 
nobly  or  gracefully :  it  shone  all  through  her,  and  it  made 
her  seem  spiteful. 

As  she  was  about  to  speak,  however,  a  glance  at  Bes- 


THE    LAUSON   TRAGEDY.  77 

sie's  anxious  face  checked  her.  After  her  painful,  severe 
fashion,  she  really  loved  the  girl,  and  she  did  not  want  to 
load  her  with  any  more  sorrow  than  was  strictly  neces- 
sary. Moreover,  the  surely  worthy  thought  occurred  to 
her  that  Heaven  might  favor  one  last  effort  to  convert 
this  wrong-minded  young  man  into  one  who  could  be 
safely  intrusted  with  the  welfare  of  her  niece  and  the 
management  of  her  money.  Hailing  the  suggestion,  in 
accordance  with  her  usual  exaltation  of  faith,  as  an  indi- 
cation from  the  sublimest  of  all  authority,  she  entered 
upon  her  task  with  such  power  as  nature  had  given  her 
and  such  sweetness  as  a  shattered  nervous  system  had 
left  her. 

"  Mr.  Foster,  there  's  one  thing  I  greatly  desire  to 
see,"  she  began  in  a  hurried,  tremulous  tone.  "  I  want 
you  to  come  out  from  among  the  indifferent,  an'  join 
yourself  to  us.  Why  don't  you  do  it  ?  Why  don't  you 
become  a  professor  ?  " 

Foster  was  even  more  surprised  and  dismayed  than 
most  men  are  when  thus  addressed.  Here  was  an  appeal 
such  as  all  of  us  must  listen  to  with  respect,  not  only 
because  it  represents  the  opinions  of  a  vast  and  justly 
revered  portion  of  civilized  humanity,  but  because  it 
concerns  the  highest  mysteries  and  possibilities  of  which 
humanity  is  cognizant.  As  one  who  valued  himself  on 
being  both  a  philosopher  and  a  gentleman,  he  would 
have  felt  bound  to  treat  any  one  courteously  who  thus 
approached  him.  But  there  was  more ;  this  appeal 
evidently  alluded  to  his  intentions  of  marriage;  it  was 
connected  with  the  threat  of  disinheritance  which  he  had 
overheard  on  entering  the  house.  If  he  would  promise 


78  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

to  "join  the  church,"  if  he  would  even  only  appear  to 
take  the  step  into  favorable  consideration,  he  could  re- 
move the  objections  of  this  earnest  woman  to  his  be- 
trothal, and  secure  her  property  to  his  future  wife.  But 
Foster  could  not  do  what  policy  demanded ;  he  had  his 
"  honest  doubts,"  and  he  could  not  remove  them  by  an 
exercise  of  will;  moreover,  he  was  too  self-respectful 
and  honorable  to  be  a  hypocrite.  After  pondering  Aunt 
Mercy's  question  for  a  moment,  he  answered  with  a 
dignity  of  soul  which  was  not  appreciated,  — 

"I  should  have  no  objection  to  what  you  propose,  if  it 
would  not  be  misunderstood.  If  it  would  only  mean  that 
I  believe  in  God,  and  that  I  worship  his  power  and  good- 
ness, I  would  oblige  you.  But  it  would  be  received  as 
meaning  more,  —  as  meaning  that  I  accept  doctrines 
which  I  am  still  examining,  —  as  meaning  that  I  take 
upon  myself  obligations  which  I  do  not  yet  hold  binding." 

"Don't  you  believe  in  the  God  of  Abraham,  Isaac, 
and  Jacob  ?  "  demanded  Miss  Mercy,  striking  home  with 
telling  directness. 

"  I  believe  in  a  Deity  who  views  his  whole  universe 
with  equal  love.  I  believe  in  a  Deity  greater  than  I 
always  hear  preached." 

Miss  Mercy  was  puzzled ;  for  while  this  confession  of 
faith  did  not  quite  tally  with  what  she  was  accustomed 
to  receive  from  pulpits,  there  was  about  it  a  largeness 
of  religious  perception  which  slightly  excited  her  awe. 
Nevertheless,  it  showed  a  dangerous  vagueness,  and  she 
decided  to  demand  something  more  explicit. 

"  What  are  your  opinions  on  the  inspiration  of  the 
Scriptures?"  she  asked. 


THE    LAUSON   TEAGEDY.  79 

He  had  been  reading  Colenso's  work  on  Genesis ;  and, 
so  far  as  he  could  judge  the  Bishop's  premises,  he  agreed 
with  his  conclusions.  At  the  same  time  he  was  aware 
that  such  an  exegesis  would  seem  simple  heresy  to  Miss 
Mercy,  and  that  whoever  held  it  would  be  condemned  by 
her  as  a  heathen  and  an  infidel.  After  a  moment  of 
hesitation,  he  responded  bravely  and  honestly,  though 
with  a  placating  smile. 

"  Miss  Lauson,  there  are  some  subjects,  indeed  there 
are  many  subjects,  on  which  I  have  no  fixed  opinions. 
I  used  to  have  opinions  on  almost  everything;  but  I 
found  them  very  troublesome,  I  had  to  change  them  so 
often !  I  have  decided  not  to  declare  any  more  positive 
opinions,  but  only  to  entertain  suppositions  to  the  effect 
that  this  or  that  may  be  the  case ;  meantime  holding  my- 
self ready  to  change  my  hypotheses  on  further  evidence." 

Although  he  seemed  to  her  guilty  of  shuffling  away 
from  her  question,  yet  she,  in  the  main,  comprehended 
his  reply  distinctly  enough.  He  did  not  believe  in 
plenary  inspiration ;  that  was  clear,  and  so  also  was  her 
duty  clear ;  she  must  not  let  him  have  her  niece  nor  her 
money. 

Now  there  was  a  something  in  her  face  like  the  forming 
of  columns  for  an  assault,  or  rather  like  the  irrational, 
ungovernable  gathering  of  clouds  for  a  storm.  Her 
staid,  melancholy  soul  —  a  soul  which  usually  lay  in 
chains  and  solitary  —  climbed  writhing  to  her  lips  and 
eyes,  and  made  angry  gestures  before  it  spoke.  Bessie 
stared  at  her  in  alarm ;  she  tried,  in  a  spirit  of  youthful 
energy,  to  look  her  down ;  but  the  struggle  of  prevention 
was  useless ;  the  hostile  words  came. 


80  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  Mr.  Poster,  I  can't  willingly  give  my  niece  to  such 
an  one  as  you,"  she  said  in  a  tremulous  but  desperate 
monotone.  "  I  s'pose,  though,  it 's  no  use  forbidding 
you  to  go  with  her.  I  s'pose  you  would  n't  mind  that. 
But  I  expect  you  will  care  for  one  thing,  —  for  her  good. 
My  will  is  made  now  in  her  favor.  But  if  she  marries 
you  I  shall  change  it.  I  sha'  n't  leave  her  a  cent." 

Here  her  sickly  strength  broke  down;  such  plain 
utterance  of  feeling  and  purpose  was  too  much  for  her 
nerves ;  she  burst  into  honest,  bitter  tears,  and,  rushing 
to  her  room,  locked  herself  up;  no  doubt,  too,  she 
prayed  there  long,  and  read  solemnly  in  the  Scriptures. 

What  was  the  result  of  this  conscientious  but  no 
doubt  unwise  remonstrance?  After  a  shock  of  disa- 
greeable surprise,  the  two  lovers  did  what  all  true  lovers 
would  have  done ;  they  entered  into  a  solemn  engage- 
ment that  no  considerations  of  fortune  should  prevent 
their  marriage.  They  shut  their  eyes  on  the  future, 
braved  all  the  adverse  chances  of  life,  and  almost  prayed 
for  trials  in  order  that  each  might  show  the  other  greater 
devotion.  The  feeling  was  natural  and  ungovernable, 
and  I  claim  also  that  it  was  beautiful  and  noble. 

"  Do  you  know  all  ?  "  asked  Bessie.  "  Grandfather 
has  never  proposed  to  leave  me  anything,  he  hated  my 
father  so !  It  was  always  understood  that  Aunt  Mercy 
was  to  take  care  of  me." 

"  I  want  nothing  with  you,"  said  Foster.  "  I  will 
slave  myself  to  death  for  you.  I  will  rejoice  to  do  it." 

"  0,  I  knew  it  would  be  so  !  "  replied  the  girl,  almost 
faint  with  joy  and  love.  "  I  knew  you  would  be  true  to 
me.  I  knew  how  grand  you  were." 


THE    LAUSON   TRAGEDY.  81 

When  they  looked  out  upon  the  earth,  after  this  scene, 
during  which  they  had  been  conscious  of  nothing  but 
each  other,  the  storm  had  fled  beyond  verdant  hills,  and 
a  rainbow  spanned  all  the  visible  landscape,  seeming  to 
them  indeed  a  bow  of  promise. 

"  0,  we  can  surely  be  happy  in  such  a  world  as  this !  " 
said  Bessie,  her  face  colored  and  illuminated  by  youth, 
hope,  and  love. 

"  We  will  find  a  cloud  castle  somewhere,"  responded 
the  young  man,  pointing  to  the  western  sky,  piled  with 
purple  and  crimson. 

Bessie  was  about  to  accompany  him  to  the  gate  on  his 
departure,  as  was  her  simple  and  affectionate  custom, 
when  a  voice  called  her  up  stairs. 

"  0  dear !  "  she  exclaimed,  pettishly.  "  It  seems  as 
if  I  couldn't  have  a  moment's  peace.  Good  by,  my 
darling." 

During  the  close  of  that  day,  at  the  hour  which  in 
Barham  was  known  as  "  early  candle-lighting,"  the  Lau- 
son  tragedy  began  to  take  form.  The  mysterious  shadow 
which  vaguely  announced  its  on-coming  was  the  disap- 
pearance from  the  family  ken  of  that  lighthouse  of  regu- 
larity, that  fast-rooted  monument  of  strict  habit,  Aunt 
Mercy.  The  kerosene  lamp  which  had  so  long  beamed 
upon  her  darnings  and  mendings,  or  upon  her  more 
aesthetic  labors  in  behalf  of  the  Barham  sewing  society, 
or  upon  the  open  yellow  pages  of  her  Scott's  Commen- 
tary and  Baxter's  Saints'  Rest,  now  flared  distractedly 
about  the  sitting-room,  as  if  in  amazement  at  her  absence. 
Nowhere  was  seen  her  tall,  thin,  hard  form,  the  truthful 
outward  expression  of  her  lean  and  sickly  soul ;  nowhere 

4*  F 


82  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

was  heard  the  afflicted  squeak  of  her  broad  calfskin  shoes, 
symbolical  of  the  worryings  of  her  fretful  conscience. 
The  doors  which  she  habitually  shut  to  keep  out  the 
night-draughts  remained  free  to  swing,  and,  if  they  could 
find  an  aiding  hand  or  breeze,  to  bang,  in  celebration  of 
their  independence.  The  dog  might  wag  his  tail  in  won- 
der through  the  parlor,  and  the  cat  might  profane  the 
sofa  with  his  stretchings  and  slumbers. 

At  first  the  absence  of  Aunt  Mercy  merely  excited  such 
pleasant  considerations  as  these.  The  fact  was  accepted 
as  a  relief  from  burdens ;  it  tended  towards  liberty  and 
jocoseness  of  spirit.  The  honest  and  well-meaning  and 
devout  woman  had  been  the  censor  of  the  family,  and, 
next  after  the  iron-headed  Squire,  its  dictator.  Bessie 
might  dance  alone  about  the  sober  rooms,  and  play 
operatic  airs  and  waltzes  upon  her  much-neglected  piano, 
without  being  called  upon  to  assume  sackcloth  and  ashes 
for  her  levity.  The  cheerful  life  which  seemed  to  enter 
the  house  because  Aunt  Mercy  had  left  it  was  a  severe 
commentary  on  the  sombre  and  unlovely  character  which 
her  diseased  sense  of  duty  had  driven  her  to  give  to  her 
unquestionably  sincere  religious  sentiment.  It  hinted 
that  if  she  should  be  taken  altogether  away  from  the 
family,  her  loss  would  awaken  little  mourning,  and  would 
soon  be  forgotten. 

Presently,  however,  this  persistent  absence  of  one 
whose  very  nature  it  was  to  be  present  excited  surprise, 
and  eventually  a  mysterious  uneasiness.  Search  was 
made  about  the  house  ;  no  one  was  discovered  up  stairs 
but  Mrs.  Lauson,  brooding  alone;  then  a  neighbor  or 
two  was  visited  by  Bessie ;  still  no  Aunt  Mercy.  The 


THE    LAUSON   TRAGEDY.  83 

solemn  truth  was,  although  no  sanguinary  sign  as  yet 
revealed  it,  that  the  Lauson  tragedy  had  an  hour  since 
been  consummated. 

The  search  for  the  missing  Aunt  Mercy  continued 
Until  it  aroused  the  interest  and  temper  of  Squire  Lauson. 
Determined  to  find  his  daughter  once  that  he  had  set 
about  it,  and  petulant  at  the  failure  of  one  line  of  inves- 
tigation after  another,  the  hard  old  gentleman  stumped 
noisily  about  the  house,  his  thick  shoes  squeaking  down 
the  passages  like  two  bands  of  music,  and  his  peeled  hick- 
ory cane  punching  open  doors  and  upsetting  furniture. 
When  he  returned  to  the  sitting-room  from  one  of  these 
boisterous  expeditions,  he  found  his  wife  sitting  in  the 
light  of  the  kerosene  lamp,  and  sewing  with  an  impatient, 
an  almost  spiteful  rapidity,  as  was  her  custom  when  her 
nerves  were  unbearably  irritated. 

"  Where 's  Mercy  ?  "  he  trumpeted.  "  Where  is  the 
old  gal  ?  Has  anybody  eloped  with  her  ?  I  saw  Deacon 
Jones  about  this  afternoon." 

This  jest  was  meant  to  amuse  and  perhaps  to  conciliate 
Mrs.  Lauson,  for  whom  he  sometimes  seemed  to  have  a 
rough  pity,  as  hard  to  bear  as  downright  hostility.  He 
had  now  and  then  a  way  of  joking  with  her  and  forcing 
her  to  smile  by  looking  her  steadily  in  the  eye.  But  this 
time  his  moral  despotism  failed ;  she  answered  his  gaze 
with  a  defiant  glare,  and  remained  sullen ;  after  another 
moment  she  rushed  out  of  the  room,  as  if  craving  relief 
from  his  domineering  presence. 

Apparently  the  Squire  would  have  called  her  back,  had 
not  his  attention  been  diverted  by  the  entry  of  his  grand- 
daughter. 


84  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

"  I  say,  Bessie,  have  you  looked  in  the  garden  ?  "  he 
demanded.  "  Why  the  Devil  have  n't  you  ?  Don't  you 
know  Mercy's  hole  where  she  meditates  ?  Go  there  and 
hunt  for  her." 

As  the  girl  disappeared  he  turned  to  the  door  through 
which  his  wife  had  fled,  as  if  he  still  had  a  savage  mind 
to  roar  for  her  reappearance.  But  after  pondering  a  mo- 
ment, and  deciding  that  he  was  more  comfortable  in  soli- 
tude, he  sat  slowly  down  in  his  usual  elbow-chair,  and 
broke  out  in  a  growling  soliloquy :  — 

"  There 's  no  comfort  like  making  one's  self  miserable. 

It's  a  sight  better  than  making  the  best  of  it. 

We  're  all  having  a  devilish  fine  time.  We  're  as  happy 
as  bugs  in  a  rug.  Hey  diddle  diddle,  the  cat 's  in  the 
fiddle  —  " 

The  continuity  of  his  rough-laid  stone-wall  sarcasm 
was  interrupted  by  Bessie,  who  rushed  into  the  sitting- 
room  with  a  low  shriek  and  a  pallid  face. 

"  What 's  the  matter  now  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  Has 
the  cow  jumped  over  the  moon?" 

"O  grandfather!"  she  gasped,  "I've  found  Aunt 
Mercy.  I  'm  afraid  she 's  dead." 

"  Hey ! "  exclaimed  the  Squire,  starting  up  eagerly 
as  he  remembered  that  Aunt  Mercy  was  his  own  child. 
"  You  don't  say  so  !  Where  is  she  ?  " 

Bessie  turned  and  reeled  out  of  the  house ;  the  old 
man  thumped  after  her  on  his  cane.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  garden  was  a  small,  neglected  arbor,  thickly  over- 
grown with  grape-vines  in  unpruned  leaf,  whither  Aunt 
Mercy  was  accustomed  to  repair  in  her  seasons  of  un- 
usual perplexity  or  gloom,  there  to  seek  guidance  or  relief 


THE    LAUSON   TRAGEDY.  85 

in  meditation  and  prayer.  In  this  arbor  they  found  her, 
seated  crouchingly  on  a  bench  near  the  doorway,  her 
arms  stretched  over  a  little  table  in  front  of  her,  and 
her  head  lying  between  them  with  the  face  turned  from 
the  gazers.  The  moon  glared  in  a  ghastly  way  upon  her 
ominously  white  hands,  and  disclosed  a  dark  yet  gleam- 
ing stain,  seemingly  a  drying  pool,  which  spread  out  from 
beneath  her  forehead. 

"  Good  Lord  !  "  groaned  Squire  Lauson.  "  Mercy ! 
I  say,  Mercy!" 

He  seized  her  hand,  but  he  had  scarcely  touched  it  ere 
he  dropped  it,  for  it  was  the  icy,  repulsive,  alarming 
hand  of  a  corpse.  We  must  compress  our  description 
of  this  scene  of  horrible  discovery.  Miss  Mercy  Lauson 
was  dead,  the  victim  of  a  brutal  assassination,  her  right 
temple  opened  by  a  gash  two  inches  deep,  her  blood  al- 
ready clotted  in  pools  or  dried  upon  her  face  and  fingers. 
It  must  have  been  an  hour,  or  perhaps  two  hours,  since 
the  blow  had  been  dealt.  At  her  feet  was  the  fatal 
weapon,  —  an  old  hatchet  which  had  long  lain  about  the 
garden,  and  which  offered  no  suggestion  as  to  who  was 
the  murderer. 

When  it  first  became  clear  to  Squire  Lauson  that  his 
daughter  was  dead,  and  had  been  murdered,  he  uttered 
a  sound  between  a  gasp  and  a  sob ;  but  almost  immedi- 
ately afterward  he  spoke  in  his  habitually  vigorous  and 
rasping  voice,  and  his  words  showed  that  he  had  not  lost 
his  iron  self-possession. 

"Bessie,  run  into  the  house,"  he  said.  "Call  the 
hired  men,  and  bring  a  lantern  with  you." 

When  she  returned  he  took  the  lantern,  threw  the 


86  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

gleam  of  it  over  his  dead  daughter's  face,  groaned,  shook 
his  head,  and  then,  leaning  on  his  cane,  commenced  ex- 
amining the  earth,  evidently  in  search  of  footmarks. 

"  There 's  your  print,  Bessie,"  he  mumhled.  "  And 
there 's  my  print.  But  whose  print 's  that  ?  That 's  the 
man.  That 's  a  long  slim  foot,  with  nails  across  the  ball. 
That 's  the  man.  Don't  disturb  those  tracks.  I  '11  set 
the  lantern  down  there.  Don't  you  disturb  'em." 

There  were  several  of  these  strange  tracks ;  the  clayey 
soil  of  the  walk,  slightly  tempered  with  sand,  had  pre- 
served them  with  fatal  distinctness;  it  showed  them 
advancing  to  the  arbor  and  halting  close  by  the  murdered 
woman.  As  Bessie  stared  at  them,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
they  were  fearfully  familiar,  though  where  she  had  seen 
them  before  she  could  not  say. 

"  Keep  away  from  those  tracks,"  repeated  Squire 
Lauson  as  the  two  laborers  who  lived  with  him  came 
down  the  garden.  "  Now,  then,  what  are  you  staring 
at?  She's  dead.  Take  her  up  —  0,  for  God's  sake, 
be  gentle  about  it !  —  take  her  up,  I  tell  you.  There  ! 
Now,  carry  her  along." 

As  the  men  moved  on  with  the  body  he  turned  to  Bes- 
sie and  said :  "  Leave  the  lantern  just  there.  And  don't 
you  touch  those  tracks.  Go  on  into  the  house." 

With  his  own  hands  he  aided  to  lay  out  his  daughter 
on  a  table,  and  drew  her  cap  from  her  temples  so  as  to 
expose  the  bloody  gash  to  view.  There  was  a  little  nat- 
ural agony  in  the  tremulousness  of  his  stubbly  and  grizzly 
chin ;  but  in  the  glitter  of  his  gray  eyes  there  was  an  ex- 
pression which  was  not  so  much  sorrow  as  revenge. 

"  That 's  a  pretty  job,"  he  said  at  last,  glaring  at  the 


THE    LATJSON    TRAGEDY.  87 

mangled  gray  head.  "  I  should  like  to  1'arn  who  did 
it." 

It  was  not  known  till  the  day  following  how  he  passed 
the  next  half-hour.  It  seems  that,  some  little  time  pre- 
vious, this  man  of  over  ninety  years  had  conceived  the 
idea  of  repairing  with  his  own  hands  the  cracked  wall  of 
his  parlor,  and  had  for  that  purpose  bought  a  quantity 
of  plaster  of  Paris  and  commenced  a  series  of  patient  ex- 
periments in  mixing  and  applying  it.  Furnished  with  a 
basin  of  his  prepared  material,  he  stalked  out  to  the  arbor 
and  busied  himself  with  taking  a  mould  of  the  strange 
footstep  to  which  he  had  called  Bessie's  attention,  succeed- 
ing in  his  labor  so  well  as  to  be  able  to  show  next  day  an 
exact  counterpart  of  the  sole  which  had  made  the  track. 

Shortly  after  he  had  left  the  house,  and  glancing  cau- 
tiously about  as  if  to  make  sure  that  he  had  indeed  left 
it,  his  wife  entered  the  room  where  lay  the  dead  body. 
She  came  slowly  up  to  the  table,  arid  looked  at  the 
ghastly  face  for  some  moments  in  silence,  with  precisely 
that  staid,  slightly  shuddering  air  which  one  often  sees  at 
funerals,  and  without  any  sign  of  the  excitement  which 
one  naturally  expects  in  the  witnesses  of  a  mortal  trage- 
dy. In  any  ordinary  person,  in  any  one  who  was  not, 
like  her,  denaturalized  by  the  egotism  of  shattered  nerves, 
such  mere  wonder  and  repugnance  would  have  appeared 
incomprehensively  brutal.  But  Mrs.  Lauson  had  a  char- 
acter of  her  own;  she  could  be  different  from  others 
without  exciting  prolonged  or  specially  severe  comment ; 
people  said  to  themselves,  "  Just  like  her,"  and  made  no 
further  criticism,  and  almost  certainly  no  remonstrance. 
Bessie  herself,  the  moment  she  had  exclaimed,  "  0  grand- 


88  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

mother  !  what  shall  we  do  ?  "  felt  how  absurd  it  was  to 
address  such  an  appeal  to  such  a  person. 

Mrs.  Lauson  replied  by  a  glance  which  expressed 
weakness,  alarm,  and  aversion,  and  which  demanded,  as 
plainly  as  words  could  say  it,  "  How  can  you  ask  me  ?  " 
Then  without  uttering  a  syllable,  without  attempting  to 
render  any  service  or  funereal  courtesy,  bearing  herself 
like  one  who  had  been  mysteriously  absolved  from  the 
duties  of  sympathy  and  decorum,  she  turned  her  back  on 
the  body  of  her  step-daughter  with  a  start  of  disgust, 
and  walked  hastily  from  the  room. 

Of  course  there  was  a  gathering  of  the  neighbors,  a 
hasty  and  useless  search  after  the  murderer,  a  medical 
examination  of  the  victim,  and  a  legal  inquest  at  the 
earliest  practicable  moment,  the  verdict  being  "  death  by 
the  hand  of  some  person  unknown."  Even  the  funeral 
passed,  with  its  mighty  crowd  and  its  solemn  excitement; 
and  still  public  suspicion  had  not  dared  to  single  out  any 
one  as  the  criminal.  It  seemed  for  a  day  or  two  as  if  the 
family  life  might  shortly  settle  into  its  old  tenor,  the 
same  narrow  routine  of  quiet  discontent  or  irrational 
bickerings,  with  no  change  but  the  loss  of  such  inflamma- 
tion as  formerly  arose  from  Aunt  Mercy's  well-meant, 
but  irritating  sense  of  duty.  The  Squire,  however,  was 
permanently  and  greatly  changed :  not  that  he  had  lost 
the  spirit  of  petty  dictation  which  led  him  to  interfere  in 
every  household  act,  even  to  the  boiling  of  the  pot,  but 
he  had  acquired  a  new  object  in  life,  and  one  which 
seemed  to  restore  all  his  youthful  energy ;  he  was  more 
restlessly  and  distressingly  vital  than  he  had  been  for 
years.  No  Indian  was  ever  more  intent  on  avenging  a 


THE    LAUSON   TRAGEDY.  89 

debt  of  blood  than  was  lie  on  hunting  down  the  murderer 
of  his  daughter.  This  terrible  old  man  has  a  strong  at- 
traction for  us :  we  feel  that  we  have  not  thus  far  done 
him  justice :  he  imperiously  demands  further  description. 

Squire  Lauson  was  at  this  time  ninety-three  years  of 
age.  The  fact  appeared  incredible,  because  he  had  pre- 
served, almost  unimpaired,  not  only  his  moral  energy 
and  intellectual  faculties,  but  also  his  physical  senses, 
and  even  to  an  extraordinary  degree  his  muscular 
strength.  His  long  and  carelessly  worn  hair  was  not 
white,  but  merely  gray ;  and  his  only  baldness  was  a 
shining  hand's-breadth,  prolonging  the  height  of  bis 
forehead.  His  face  was  deeply  wrinkled,  but  more  ap- 
parently with  thought  and  passion  than  from  decay,  for 
the  flesh  was  still  well  under  control  of  the  muscles,  and 
the  expression  was  so  vigorous  that  one  was  tempted  to 
call  it  robust.  There  was  nothing  of  that  insipid  and 
almost  babyish  tranquillity  which  is  commonly  observable 
in  the  countenances  of  the  extremely  aged.  The  cheek- 
bones were  heavy,  though  the  healthy  fulness  of  the 
cheeks  prevented  them  from  being  pointed ;  the  jaws, 
not  yet  attenuated  by  the  loss  of  many  teeth,  were  un- 
usually prominent  and  muscular ;  the  heavy  Roman  nose 
still  stood  high  above  the  projecting  chin.  In  general, 
it  was  a  long,  large  face,  grimly  and  ruggedly  massive, 
of  a  uniform  grayish  color,  and  reminding  you  of  a  visage 
carved  in  granite. 

In  figure  the  Squire  was  of  medium  height,  with  a 
tfeep  chest  and  heavy  limbs.  He  did  not  stand  quite  up- 
right, but  the  stoop  was  in  his  shoulders  and  not  in  his 
loins,  and  arose  from  a  slouching  habit  of  carrying  him- 


90  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

self  much  more  than  from  weakness.  He  walked  with  a 
cane,  but  his  step,  though  rather  short,  was  strong  and 
rapid,  and  he  could  get  over  the  ground  at  the  rate  of 
three  miles  an  hour.  At  times  he  seemed  a  little  deaf, 
but  it  was  mainly  from  absorption  of  mind  and  inatten- 
tion, and  he  could  hear  perfectly  when  he  was  interested. 
The  great  gray  eyes  under  his  bushy,  pepper-and-salt 
eyebrows  were  still  so  sound  that  he  only  used  spectacles 
in  reading.  As  for  voice,  there  was  hardly  such  another 
in  the  neighborhood ;  it  was  a  strong,  rasping,  dictatorial 
caw,  like  the  utterance  of  a  gigantic  crow ;  it  might  have 
served  the  needs  of  a  sea-captain  in  a  tempest.  A  jocose 
neighbor  related  that  he  had  in  a  dream  descended  into 
hell,  and  that  in  trying  to  find  his  way  out  he  had  lost  his 
reckoning,  until,  hearing  a  tremendous  volley  of  oaths  on 
the  surface  of  the  earth  over  his  head,  he  knew  that  he 
was  under  the  hills  of  Barham,  and  that  Squire  Lauson 
was  swearing  at  his  oxen. 

Squire  Lauson  was  immense;  you  might  travel  over 
him  for  a  week  without  discovering  half  his  wonders ;  he 
was  a  continent,  and  he  must  remain  for  the  most  part 
an  unknown  continent.  Bringing  to  a  close  our  explora- 
tions into  his  character  and  past  life,  we  will  follow  him 
up  simply  as  one  of  the  personages  of  this  tragedy.  He 
was  at  the  present  time  very  active,  but  also  to  a  certain 
extent  inexplicable.  It  was  known  that  he  had  inter- 
views with  various  officials  of  justice,  that  he  furnished 
them  with  his  plaster  cast  of  the  strange  footprint  which 
had  been  found  in  the  garden,  and  that  he  earnestly  im- 
pressed upon  them  the  value  of  this  object  for  the  pur- 
pose of  tracking  out  the  murderer.  But  he  had  other 


THE    LAUSON    TRAGEDY.  91 

lines  of  investigation  in  his  steady  old  hands,  as  was 
discoverable  later. 

His  manner  towards  his  granddaughter  and  his  wife 
changed  noticeably.  Instead  of  treating  the  first  with 
neglect,  and  the  second  with  persistent  hostility  or  deris- 
ion, he  became  assiduously  attentive  to  them,  addressed 
them  frequently  in  conversation,  and  sought  to  win  their 
confidence.  With  Bessie  this  task  was  easy,  for  she  was 
one  of  those  natural,  unspoiled  women,  who  long  for 
sympathy,  and  she  inclined  toward  her  grandfather  the 
moment  she  saw  any  kindness  in  his  eyes.  They  had 
long  talks  about  the  murdered  relative,  about  every  event 
or  suspicion  which  seemed  to  relate  to  her  death,  about 
the  property  which  she  had  left  to  Bessie,  and  about  the 
girl's  prospects  in  life. 

Not  so  with  Mrs.  Lauson.  Even  the  horror  which 
had  entered  the  family  life  could  not  open  the  hard  crust 
which  disease  and  disappointment  had  formed  over  her 
nature,  and  she  met  the  old  man's  attempts  to  make  her 
communicative  with  her  usual  sulky  or  pettish  reticence. 
There  never  was  such  an  unreasonable  creature  as  this 
wretched  wife,  who,  while  she  remained  unmarried,  had 
striven  so  hard  to  be  agreeable  to  the  other  sex.  It  was 
not  with  her  husband  alone  that  she  fought,  but  with 
every  one,  whether  man  or  woman,  who  came  near  her. 
Whoever  entered  the  house,  whether  it  were  some  gos- 
siping neighbor  or  the  clergyman  or  the  doctor,  she  flew 
out  of  it  on  discovering  their  approach,  and  wandered 
alone  about  the  fields  until  they  departed.  This  absence 
she  would  perhaps  employ  in  eating  green  fruit,  hoping, 
as  she  said,  to  make  herself  sick  and  die,  or,  at  least,  to 


92  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

make  herself  sick  enough  to  plague  her  husband.  At 
meals  she  generally  sat  in  glum  silence,  although  once  or 
twice  she  burst  out  in  violent  tirades,  scoffing  at  the 
Squire's  management  of  the  place,  defying  him  to  strike 
her,  etc. 

Her  appearance  at  this  time  was  miserable  and  little 
less  than  disgusting.  Her  skin  was  thick  and  yellow ;  her 
eyes  were  bloodshot  and  watery ;  her  nose  was  reddened 
with  frequent  crying ;  her  form  was  of  an  almost  skele- 
ton thinness ;  her  manner  was  full  of  strange  starts 
and  gaspings.  It  was  curious  to  note  the  contrast  be- 
tween her  perfect  wretchedness  of  aspect  and  the  unfeel- 
ing coolness  with  which  the  Squire  watched  and  studied 
her. 

In  this  woful  way  was  the  Lauson  family  getting  on 
when  the  country  around  was  electrified  by  an  event 
which  almost  threw  the  murder  itself  into  the  shade. 
Henry  Foster,  the  accepted  lover  of  Bessie  Barron,  a 
professor  in  the  Scientific  College  of  Hampstead,  was 
suddenly  arrested  as  the  assassin  of  Miss  Mercy  Lauson. 

"  What  does  this  mean !  "  was  his  perfectly  natural 
exclamation,  when  seized  by  the  officers  of  justice  ;  but 
it  was  uttered  with  a  sudden  pallor  which  awakened  in 
the  bystanders  a  strong  suspicion  of  his  guilt.  No  defi- 
nite answer  was  made  to  his  question  until  he  was 
closeted  with  the  lawyer  whom  he  immediately  retained 
in  his  defence. 

"  I  should  like  to  get  at  the  whole  of  your  case,  Mr. 
Foster,"  said  the  legal  gentleman.  "  I  must  beg  you, 
for  your  own  sake,  to  be  entirely  frank  with  me." 

"  I  assure  you  that  I  know  nothing  about  the  murder," 


THE    LAUSON    TEAGEDY.  93 

was  the  firm  reply.  "I  don't  so  much  as  understand 
why  I  should  be  suspected  of  the  horrible  business." 

The  lawyer,  Mr.  Adams  Patterson,  after  studying  Pos- 
ter in  a  furtive  way,  as  if  doubtful  whether  there  had 
been  perfect  honesty  in  his  assertion  of  innocence,  went 
on  to  state  what  he  supposed  would  be  the  case  of  the 
prosecution. 

"  The  evidence  against  you,"  he  said,  "  so  far  at  least 
as  I  can  now  discover,  will  all  be  circumstantial.  They 
will  endeavor  to  prove  your  presence  at  the  scene  of  the 
tragedy  by  your  tracks.  Footmarks,  said  to  correspond 
to  yours,  were  found  passing  the  door  of  the  arbor,  re- 
turning to  it  and  going  away  from  it." 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Foster.  "  I  remember,  —  I  did 
pass  there.  I  will  tell  you  how.  It  was  in  the  after- 
noon. I  was  in  the  house  during  a  thunder-storm  which 
happened  that  day,  and  left  it  shortly  after  the  shower 
ended.  I  went  out  through  the  garden  because  that  was 
the  nearest  way  to  the  rivulet  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill, 
and  I  wished  to  make  some  examinations  into  the  struc- 
ture of  the  water-bed.  A  part  of  the  garden  walk  is  grav- 
elled, and  on  that  I  suppose  my  tracks  did  not  show. 
But  near  the  arbor  the  gravel  ceases,  and  there  I  remem- 
ber stepping  into  the  damp  mould.  I  did  pass  the  arbor, 
and  I  did  return  to  it.  I  returned  to  it  because  it  had 
been  a  heavenly  place  to  me.  It  was  there  that  I  pro- 
posed to  Miss  Barron,  and  that  she  accepted  me.  The 
moment  that  I  had  passed  it  I  reproached  myself  for  do- 
ing so.  I  went  back,  looked  at  the  little  spot  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  left  a  kiss  on  the  table.  It  was  on  that  table 
that  her  hand  had  rested  when  I  first  dared  to  take  it  in 
jaajne." 


94  'LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

His  voice  broke  for  an  instant  with  an  emotion  which 
every  one  who  has  ever  loved  can  at  least  partially  under- 
stand. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  to  think  that  such  an  impulse  should 
entangle  me  in  such  a  charge  !  "  he  added,  when  he  could 
speak  again. 

"  Well,"  he  resumed,  after  a  long  sigh,  "  I  left  the  ar- 
bor, —  my  heart  as  innocent  and  happy  as  any  heart  in 
the  world,  —  I  climbed  over  the  fence  and  went  down 
the  hill.  That  is  the  last  time  that  I  was  in  those  grounds 
that  day.  That  is  the  whole  truth,  so  help  me  God !  " 

The  lawyer  seemed  touched.  Even  then,  however,  he 
was  saying  to  himself,  "  They  always  keep  back  something, 
if  not  everything."  After  meditating  for  a  few  seconds, 
he  resumed  his  interrogatory. 

"  Did  any  one  see  you  ?  did  Miss  Barren  see  you,  as 
you  passed  through  the  garden  ?  " 

"  I  think  not.  Some  one  called  her  just  as  I  left  her, 
and  she  went,  I  believe,  up  stairs." 

"  Did  you  see  the  person  who  called  ?  Did  you  see 
any  one  ?  " 

"No  one.  But  the  voice  was  a  woman's  voice.  I 
took  it  to  be  that  of  a  servant." 

Mr.  Patterson  fell  into  a  thoughtful  silence,  his  arms 
resting  on  the  elbows  of  his  chair,  and  his  anxious  eyes 
wandering  over  the  floor. 

"  But  what  motive  ?  "  broke  out  Foster,  addressing  the 
lawyer  as  if  he  were  an  accuser  and  an  enemy,  —  "  what 
suflicient  motive  had  I  for  such  a  hideous  crime  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  that  is  just  it.  The  motive  !  They  will  make 
a  great  deal  of  that.  Why,  you  must  be  able  to  guess 


THE    LAUSON   TRAGEDY.  95 

what  is  alleged.  Miss  Lauson  had  made  a  will  in  her 
niece's  favor,  but  had  threatened  to  disinherit  her  if  she 
married  you.  This  fact,  —  as  has  been  made  known  by 
an  incautious  admission  of  Miss  Bessie  Barren,  —  this 
fact  you  were  aware  of.  The  death  came  just  in  time 
to  prevent  a  change  in  the  will.  Don't  you  see  the  ob- 
vious inference  of  the  prosecution  ?  " 

"  Good  Heavens  !  "  exclaimed  Foster,  springing  up  and 
pacing  his  cell.  "  I  murder  a  woman,  —  murder  my  wife's 
aunt,  —  for  money,  —  for  twenty  thousand  dollars  !  Am 
I  held  so  low  as  that  ?  Why,  it  is  a  sum  that  any  clever 
man  can  earn  in  this  country  in  a  few  years.  We  could 
have  done  without  it.  I  would  not  have  asked  for  it, 
much  less  murdered  for  it.  Tell  me,  Mr.  Patterson,  do 
you  suppose  me  capable  of  such  degrading  as  well  as  such 
horrible  guilt  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Foster,"  replied  the  lawyer,  with  impressive  de- 
liberation, "  I  shall  go  into  this  case  with  a  confidence 
that  you  are  absolutely  innocent." 

"Thank  you,"  murmured  the  young  man,  grasping 
Patterson's  hand  violently,  and  then  turning  away  to  wipe 
a  tear,  which  had  been  too  quick  for  him. 

"  Excuse  my  weakness,"  he  said,  presently.  "  But  I 
don't  believe  any  worthy  man  is  strong  enough  to  bear 
the  insult  that  the  world  has  put  upon  me,  without  show- 
ing his  suffering." 

Certainly,  Foster's  bearing  and  the  sentiments  which 
he  expressed  had  the  nobility  and  pathos  of  injured  inno- 
cence. Were  it  not  that  innocence  can  be  counterfeited, 
as  also  that  a  fine  demeanor  and  touching  utterance  are 
not  points  in  law,  no  alarming  doubt  would  seem  to 


96  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

overshadow  the  result  of  the  trial.  And  yet,  strange  as 
it  must  seem  to  those  whom  my  narrative  may  have  im- 
pressed in  favor  of  Poster,  the  sedate,  Puritanic  popula- 
tion of  Barham  and  its  vicinity  inclined  more  and  more 
toward  the  presumption  of  his  guilt. 

For  this  there  were  two  reasons.  In  the  first  place, 
who  but  he  had  any  cause  of  spite  against  Mercy  Lauson, 
or  could  hope  to  draw  any  profit  from  her  death  ?  There 
had  been  no  robbery ;  there  was  not  a  sign  that  the  vic- 
tim's clothing  had  been  searched ;  the  murder  had  clearly 
not  been  the  work  of  a  burglar  or  a  thief.  But  Foster, 
if  he  indeed  assassinated  this  woman,  had  thereby  removed 
an  obstacle  to  his  marriage,  and  had  secured  to  his  future 
wife  a  considerable  fortune. 

In  the  second  place,  Foster  was  such  a  man  as  the  nar- 
rowly scrupulous  and  orthodox  world  of  Barham  would 
naturally  regard  with  suspicion.  Graduate  of  a  German 
university,  he  had  brought  back  to  America,  not  only  a 
superb  scientific  education,  but  also  what  passed,  in  the 
region  where  he  had  settled,  for  a  laxity  of  morals.  Pro- 
fessor as  he  was  in  the  austere  college  of  Hampstead,  and 
expected,  therefore,  to  set  a  luminously  correct  example 
in  both  theoretical  and  practical  ethics,  he  held  theological- 
opinions  which  were  too  modern  to  be  considered  sound, 
and  he  even  neglected  church  to  an  extent  which  his  po- 
sition rendered  scandalous.  In  spite  of  the  strict  prohib- 
itory law  of  Massachusetts,  he  made  use  of  lager-beer  and 
other  still  stronger  fluids ;  and,  although  he  was  never 
known  to  drink  to  excess,  the  mere  fact  of  breaking  the 
statute  was  a  sufficient  offence  to  rouse  prejudice.  It  was 
also  reported  of  him,  to  the  honest  horror  of  many  serious 


THE    LAUSON   TEAGEDY.  97 

minds,  that  he  had  been  detected  in  geologizing  on  Sun- 
day, and  that  he  was  fond  of  whist. 

How  apt  we  are  to  infer  that  a  man  who  violates  our 
code  of  morals  will  also  violate  his  own  code  !  Of  course 
this  Germanized  American  could  not  believe  that  murder 
was  right;  but  then  he  played  cards  and  drank  beer, 
which  we  of  Barham  knew  to  be  wrong ;  and  if  he 
would  do  one  wrong  thing,  why  not  another  ? 

Meantime  how  was  it  with  Bessie  ?  How  is  it  always 
with  women  when  those  whom  they  love  are  charged 
with  unworthiness  ?  Do  they  exhibit  the  "  judicial 
mind "  ?  Do  they  cautiously  weigh  the  evidence  and 
decide  according  to  it  ?  The  girl  did  not  entertain  the 
faintest  supposition  that  her  lover  could  be  guilty ;  she 
was  no  more  capable  of  blackening  his  character  than 
she  was  capable  of  taking  his  life.  Shs  would  not  speak 
to  people  who  showed  by  word  or  look  that  they  doubted 
his  innocence.  She  raged  at  a  world  which  could  be  so 
stupid,  so  unjust,  and  so  wicked  as  to  slander  the  good 
fame  and  threaten  the  life  of  one  whom  her  heart  had 
crowned  with  more  than  human  perfections. 

But  what  availed  all  her  confidence  in  his  purity? 
There  was  the  finger  of  public  suspicion  pointed  at  him, 
and  there  was  the  hangman  lying  in  wait  for  his  pre- 
cious life.  She  was  almost  mad  with  shame,  indignation, 
grief,  and  terror.  She  rose  as  pale  as  a  ghost  from  sleep- 
less nights,  during  which  she  had  striven  in  vain  to 
unravel  this  terrible  mystery,  and  prayed  in  vain  that 
Heaven  would  revoke  this  unbearable  calamity.  Day  by 
day  she  visited  her  betrothed  in  his  cell,  and  cheered 
him  with  the  sympathy  of  her  trusting  and  loving  soul 

VOL.  III.  5  O 


98  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

The  conversations  which  took  place  on  these  occasions 
were  so  naive  and  childlike  in  their  honest  utterance  of 
emotion  that  I  almost  dread  to  record  them,  lest  the 
deliberate,  unpalpitating  sense  of  criticism  should  pro- 
nounce them  sickening,  and  mark  them  for  ridicule. 

"  Darling,"  she  once  said  to  him,  "we  must  be  married. 
Whether  you  are  to  live  or  to  die,  I  must  be  your  wife." 

He  knelt  down  and  kissed  the  hem  of  her  dress  in 
adoration  of  such  self-sacrifice. 

"  Ah,  my  love,  I  never  before  knew  what  you  were," 
he  whispered,  as  she  leaned  forward,  caught  his  head  in 
her  hands,  dragged  it  into  her  lap,  and  covered  it  with 
kisses  and  tears.  "  Ah,  my  love,  you  are  too  good.  I 
cannot  accept  such  a  sacrifice.  When  I  am  cleared 
publicly  of  this  horrible  charge,  then  I  will  ask  you  once 
more  if  you  dare  be  my  wife." 

"  Dare !  O,  how  can  you  say  such  things ! "  she  sobbed. 
"  Don't  you  know  that  you  are  more  to  me  than  the 
whole  universe  ?  Don't  you  know  that  I  would  marry 
you,  even  if  I  knew  you  were  guilty  ?  " 

There  is  no  reasoning  with  this  sublime  passion  of  love, 
when  it  is  truly  itself.  There  is  no  reasoning  with  it ; 
and  Heaven  be  thanked  that  it  is  so  !  It  is  well  to  have 
one  impulse  in  the  world  which  has  no  egoism,  which  re- 
joices in  self-immolation  for  the  sake  of  its  object,  which 
is  among  emotions  what  a  martyr  is  among  men. 

Foster's  response  was  worthy  of  the  girl's  declaration. 
"  My  love,"  he  whispered,  "  I  have  been  bemoaning  my 
ruined  life,  but  I  must  bemoan  it  no  more.  It  is  suc- 
cess enough  for  any  man  to  be  loved  by  you,  and  as  you 
love  me." 


THE    LAUSON   TRAGEDY.  99 

"  No,  no  !  "  protested  Bessie.  "  It  is  not  success 
enough  for  you.  No  success  is  enough  for  you.  You 
deserve  everything  that  ever  man  did  deserve.  And  here 
you  are  insulted,  trampled  upon,  and  threatened.  0,  it 
is  shameful  and  horrible  !  " 

"  My  child,  you  must  not  help  to  break  me  down," 
implored  Poster,  feeling  that  he  was  turning  weak  under 
the  thought  of  Ms  calamity. 

She  started  towards  him  in  a  spasm  of  remorse ;  it 
was  as  if  she  had  suddenly  become  aware  that  she  had 
stabbed  him ;  her  face  and  her  attitude  were  full  of  self- 
reproach. 

"  O  my  darling,  do  I  make  you  more  wretched  ?  "  she 
asked,  "  when  I  would  die  for  you !  when  you  are  my  all ! 
0,  there  is  not  a  minute  when  I  am  worthy  of  you  !  " 

These  interviews  left  Poster  possessed  of  a  few  min- 
utes of  consolation  and  peace,  which  would  soon  change 
into  an  increased  poverty  of  despair  and  rage.  For  the 
first  few  days  of  his  imprisonment  his  prevalent  feeling 
was  anger.  He  could  not  in  the  least  accept  his  posi- 
tion ;  he  would  not  look  upon  himself  as  one  who  was 
suspected  with  justice,  or  even  with  the  slightest  show 
of  probability;  he  would  not  admit  that  society  was 
pardonable  for  its  doubts  of  him.  He  was  not  satisfied 
with  mere  hope  of  escape  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  consid- 
ered his  accusers  shamefully  and  wickedly  blameworthy ; 
he  was  angry  at  them,  and  wanted  to  wreak  upon  them 
a  stern  vengeance. 

As  the  imprisonment  dragged  on,  however,  and  his 
mind  lost  its  tension  under  the  pressure  of  trouble, 
there  came  moments  when  he  did  not  quite  know  him' 


100  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

self.  It  seemed  to  him  that  this  man,  who  was  charged 
with  murder,  was  some  one  else,  for  whose  character  he 
could  not  stand  security,  and  who  might  be  guilty.  He 
almost  looked  upon  him  with  suspicion;  he  half  joined 
the  public  in  condemning  him  unheard.  Perhaps  this 
mental  confusion  was  the  foreshadowing  of  that  insane 
state  of  mind  in  which  prisoners  have  confessed  them- 
selves guilty  of  murders  which  they  had  not  committed, 
and  which  have  been  eventually  brought  home  to  others. 
There  are  twilights  between  reason  and  unreason.  The 
descent  from  the  one  condition  to  the  other  is  oftener  a 
slope  than  a  precipice. 

Meanwhile  Bessie  had,  as  a  matter  of  course,  plans  for 
saving  her  lover ;  and  these  plans,  almost  as  a  matter  of 
course  too,  were  mainly  impracticable.  As  with  all 
young  people  and  almost  all  women,  she  rebelled  against 
the  fixed  procedures  of  society  when  they  seemed  likely 
to  trample  on  the  dictates  of  her  affections.  Now  that 
it  was  her  lover  who  was  under  suspicion  of  murder,  it 
did  not  seem  a  necessity  to  her  that  the  law  should  take 
its  course,  and,  on  the  contrary,  it  seemed  to  her  an 
atrocity.  She  knew  that  he  was  guiltless ;  she  knew 
that  he  was  suffering ;  why  should  he  be  tried  ?  When 
told  that  he  must  have  every  legal  advantage,  she 
assented  to  it  eagerly,  and  drove  at  once  to  see  Mr. 
Patterson,  and  overwhelmed  him  with  tearful  implora- 
tions  "  to  do  everything,  —  to  do  everything  that  could 
be  done,  —  yes,  in  short,  to  do  everything."  But  still 
she  could  not  feel  that  anything  ought  to  be  done,  except 
to  release  at  once  this  beautiful  and  blameless  victim,  and 
to  make  him  every  conceivable  apology.  As  for  bringing 


THE   LAUSON   TRAGEDY.  101 

him  before  a  court,  to  answer  with  his  life  whether  he 
were  innocent  or  guilty,  it  was  an  injustice  and  an  out- 
rage which  she  rebelled  against  with  all  the  energy  of 
her  ardent  nature. 

Who  could  prevent  this  infamy  ?  In  her  ignorance 
of  the  macliinery  of  justice,  it  seemed  to  her  that  her 
grandfather  might.  Notwithstanding  the  little  sympa- 
thy that  there  had  been  between  them,  she  went  to  the 
grim  old  man  with  her  sorrows  and  her  plans,  proposing 
to  him  to  arrest  the  trial.  In  her  love  and  her  simplicity 
she  would  have  appealed  to  a  mountain  or  to  a  tiger. 

"What!"  roared  the  Squire.  "Stop  the  trial? 
Can't  do  it.  I  'm  not  the  prosecutor.  The  State's  at- 
torney is  the  prosecutor." 

"  But  can't  you  say  that  you  think  the  proof  against 
him  is  insufficient  ?  "  urged  Bessie.  "  Can't  you  go  to 
them  and  say  that  ?  Won't  that  do  it  ?  " 

"  Lord  bless  you  !  "  replied  Squire  Lauson,  staring  in 
wonder  at  such  ignorance,  and  dimly  conscious  of  the 
love  and  sorrow  which  made  it  utter  its  simplicities. 

"  0  grandfather !  do  have  pity  on  him  and  on  me  !  " 
pleaded  Bessie. 

He  gave  her  a  kinder  glance  than  she  had  ever  re- 
ceived from  him  before  in  her  life.  It  occurred  to  him, 
as  if  it  were  for  the  first  time,  that  she  was  very  sweet  and 
helpless,  and  that  she  was  his  own  grandchild.  He  had 
hated  her  father.  O,  how  he  had  hated  the  conceited 
city  upstart,  with  his  pert,  positive  ways  !  how  he  had 
rejoiced  over  his  bankruptcy,  if  not  over  his  death  !  The 
girl  he  had  taken  to  his  home,  because,  after  all,  she 
was  a  Lauson  by  blood,  and  it  would  be  a  family  shame 


102  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

to  let  her  go  begging  her  bread  of  strangers.  But  she 
had  not  won  upon  him ;  she  looked  too  much  like  that 
"  damn  jackanapes,"  her  father ;  moreover,  she  had  con- 
temptible city  accomplishments,  and  she  moped  in  the 
seclusion  of  Barham.  He  had  been  glad  when  she  be- 
came engaged  to  that  other  "  damn  jackanapes,"  Fos- 
ter; and  it  had  been  agreeable  to  think  that  her  mar- 
riage would  take  her  out  of  his  sight.  Mercy  had  made 
a  will  in  her  favor ;  he  had  sniffed  and  hooted  at  Mercy 
for  her  folly;  but,  after  all,  he  had  in  his  heart  con- 
sented to  the  will ;  it  saved  him  from  leaving  any  of  his 
money  to  a  Barron. 

Of  late,  however,  there  had  been  a  softening  in  the 
Squire ;  he  could  himself  hardly  believe  that  it  was  in 
his  heart ;  he  half  suspected  at  times  that  it  was  in  his 
brain.  A  man  who  lives  to  ninety-three  is  exposed  to 
this  danger,  that  he  may  survive  all  his  children.  The 
Squire  had  walked  to  one  grave  after  another,  until  he 
had  buried  his  last  son  and  his  last  daughter.  After 
Mercy  Lauson,  there  were  no  more  children  for  him  to 
see  under  ground ;  and  that  fact,  coupled  with  the  shock- 
ing nature  of  her  death,  had  strangely  shaken  him ;  it 
had  produced  that  singular  softening  which  we  have 
mentioned,  and  which  seemed  to  him  like  a  malady. 
Now,  a  little  shattered,  no  longer  the  man  that  he  so 
long  had  been,  he  was  face  to  face  with  his  only  living 
descendant. 

He  reached  out  his  gray,  hard  hand,  and  laid  it  on  her 
glossy,  curly  hair.  She  started  with  surprise  at  the 
unaccustomed  touch,  and  looked  up  in  his  face  with  a 
tearful  sparkle  of  hope. 


THE    LATJSON   TRAGEDY.  103 

"  Be  quiet,  Bessie,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  which  was  less 
like  a  caw  than,  usual. 

"  O  grandfather !  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  sobbed, 
guessing  that  deliverance  might  be  nigh,  and  yet  fearing 
to  fall  back  into  despair. 

"Don't  cry,"  was  the  only  response  of  this  close- 
mouthed,  imperturbable  old  man. 

"  O,  was  it  any  one  else  ?  "  she  demanded.  "  Who 
do  you  think  did  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  an  idea,"  he  admitted,  after  staring  at  her 
steadily,  as  if  to  impress  caution.  "But  keep  quiet. 
We'll  see." 

"  You  know  it  could  n't  be  he  that  did  it,"  urged  Bes- 
sie. "  Don't  you  know  it  couldn't  ?  He  's  too  good." 

The  Squire  laughed.  "  Why,  some  folks  laid  it  to 
you,"  he  said.  "  If  he  should  be  cleared,  they  might 
lay  it  to  you  again.  There 's  no  telling  who  '11  do  such 
things,  and  there  's  no  telling  who  '11  be  suspected." 

"  And  you  will  do  something  ?  "  she  resumed.  "  You 
will  follow  it  up  ?  You  will  save  him  ?  " 

"Keep  quiet,"  grimly  answered  the  Squire.  "I'm 
watching.  But  keep  quiet.  Not  a  word  to  a  living 
soul." 

Close  on  this  scene  came  another,  which  proved  to  be 
the  unravelling  of  the  drama.  That  evening  Bessie  went 
early,  as  usual,  to  her  solitary  room,  and  prepared  for 
one  of  those  nights  which  are  not  a  rest  to  the  weary. 
She  had  become  very  religious  since  her  trouble  had 
come  upon  her ;  she  read  several  chapters  in  the  Bible, 
and  then  she  prayed  long  and  fervently ;  and,  after  a  sob 
or  two  over  her  own  shortcomings,  the  prayer  was  all  for 


104;  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Foster.  Such  is  human  devotion :  the  voice  of  distress 
is  far  more  fervent  than  the  voice  of  worship ;  the  weak 
and  sorrowful  are  the  true  suppliants. 

Her  prayer  ended,  if  ever  it  could  be  said  to  end 
while  she  waked,  she  strove  anew  to  disentangle  the 
mystery  which  threatened  her  lover,  meanwhile  hearing, 
half  unawares,  the  noises  of  the  night.  Darkness  has  its 
speech,  its  still  small  whisperings  and  mutterings,  a  lan- 
guage which  cannot  be  heard  during  the  clamor  of  day, 
but  which  to  those  who  must  listen  to  it  is  painfully 
audible,  and  which  rarely  has  pleasant  things  to  say,  but 
threatens  rather,  or  warns.  Tor  a  long  time,  disturbed 
by  fingers  that  tapped  at  her  window,  by  hands  that 
Btole  along  her  wall,  by  feet  that  glided  through  the  dark 
halls,  Bessie  could  not  sleep.  She  lost  herself;  then  she 
came  back  to  consciousness  with  the  start  of  a  swimmer 
stuggling  toward  the  surface;  then  she  recommenced 
praying  for  Foster,  and  once  more  lost  herself. 

At  last,  half  dozing,  and  yet  half  aware  that  she  was 
Weeping,  she  was  suddenly  and  sharply  roused  by  a  dis- 
tinct creak  in  the  floor  of  her  room.  Bessie  had  in  one 
respect  inherited  somewhat  of  her  grandfather's  iron 
nature,  being  so  far  from  habitually  timorous  that  she 
was  noted  among  her  girlish  acquaintance  for  courage. 
But  her  nerves  had  been  seriously  shaken  by  the  late 
tragedy,  by  anxiety,  and  by  sleeplessness ;  it  seemed 
to  her  that  there  was  in  the  air  a  warning  of  great  dan- 
ger ;  she  was  half  paralyzed  by  fright. 

Struggling  against  her  terror,  she  sprang  out  of  bed 
and  made  a  rush  toward  her  door,  meaning  to  close  and 
lock  it.  Instantly  there  was  a  collision ;  she  had  thrown 


THE    LAUSON   TKAGEDY.  105 

herself  against  some  advancing  form  ;  in  the  next  breath 
she  was  engaged  in  a  struggle.  Half  out  of  her  senses, 
she  did  not  scream,  did  not  query  whether  her  assailant 
were  man  or  woman,  did  not  indeed  use  her  intelligence 
in  any  distinct  fashion,  but  only  pushed  and  pulled  in 
blind  instinct  of  escape. 

Once  she  had  a  sensation  of  being  cut  with  some  sharp 
instrument.  Then  she  struck;  the  blow  told,  and  her 
antagonist  fell  heavily ;  the  fall  was  succeeded  by  a  short 
shriek  in  a  woman's  voice.  Bessie  did  not  stop  to  won- 
der that  any  one  engaged  in  an  attempt  at  assassination 
should  utter  an  outcry  which  would  almost  necessarily 
insure  discovery7  and  seizure.  The  shock  of  the  sound 
seemed  to  restore  her  own  powers  of  speech,  and  she 
burst  into  a  succession  of  loud  screams,  calling  on  her 
grandfather  for  help. 

In  the  same  moment  the  hope  which  abides  in  light 
fell  under  her  hand.  Reeling  against  her  dressing-table, 
her  fingers  touched  a  box  of  waxen  matches,  and  she 
quickly  drew  one  of  them  against  the  wood,  sending  a 
faint  glimmer  through  the  chamber.  She  was  not  hor- 
ror-stricken, she  did  not  grasp  a  comprehension  of  the 
true  nature  of  the  scene ;  she  simply  stared  in  trembling 
wonder  when  she  recognized  Mrs.  Lauson. 

"  You  there,  grandmother !  "  gasped  Bessie.  "  What 
has  happened  ?  " 

Mrs.  Lauson,  attired  in  an  old  morning-gown,  was  sit- 
ting on  the  floor,  partially  supported  by  one  hand,  while 
the  other  was  moving  about  as  if  in  search  of  some 
object.  The  object  was  a  carving-knife;  she  saw  it, 
clutched  it,  and  rose  to  her  feet ;  then  for  the  first  time 
5* 


106  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

she  looked  at  Bessie.  "  What  do  you  lie  awake  and 
pray  for  ?  "  she  demanded,  in  a  furious  mutter.  "  You 
He  awake  and  pray  every  night.  I  've  listened  in  the 
hall  time  and  again,  and  heard  you.  I  won't  have  it. 
I  '11  give  you  just  three  minutes  to  get  to  sleep." 

Bessie  did  not  think ;  it  did  not  occur  to  her,  at  least 
not  in  any  clear  manner,  that  this  was  lunacy ;  she 
instinctively  sprang  behind  a  large  chair  and  uttered 
another  scream. 

"  I  say,  will  you  go  to  sleep  ?  "  insisted  Mrs.  Lauson, 
advancing  and  raising  her  knife. 

Just  in  the  moment  of  need  there  were  steps  in  the 
hall ;  the  still  vigorous  and  courageous  old  Squire  ap- 
peared upon  the  scene ;  after  a  violent  struggle  the 
maniac  was  disarmed  and  bound.  She  lay  upon  Bessie's 
bed,  staring  at  her  husband  with  bloodshot,  watery  eyes, 
and  seemingly  unconscious  of  anything  but  a  sense  of 
ill-treatment.  The  girl,  meanwhile,  had  discovered  a 
slight  gash  on  her  left  arm,  and  had  shown  it  to  the 
Squire. 

"  Sallie,"  demanded  the  cold-blooded  old  man,  "  what 
have  you  been  trying  to  knife  Bessie  for  ?  " 

"Because  she  lay  awake  and  prayed,"  was  the  ready 
and  firm  response  of  downright  mania. 

"  Look  here,  Sallie,  what  did  you  kill  Mercy  for  ?  " 
continued  the  Squire,  without  changing  a  muscle  of  his 
countenance. 

"  Because  she  sat  up  and  prayed,"  responded  Mrs. 
Lauson.  "  She  sat  up  in  the  garden  and  prayed  against 
me.  Ever  so  many  people  sit  up  and  lie  awake  to  pray 
against  me.  I  won't  have  it." 


THE    LAUSON    TRAGEDY.  107 

"  All !  "  said  the  old  man.  "  Do  you  hear  that,  Bes- 
sie ?  Remember  it,  so  as  to  say  it  upon  your  oath." 

After  a  second  or  two  he  added,  with  something  like  a 
twinkle  of  his  characteristic  humor  in  his  hard  gray  eyes, 
"  So  I  saved  my  life  by  not  praying  !  " 

Thus  ended  the  extraordinary  scene  which  brought  to 
light  the  murderer  of  Miss  Mercy  Lauson.  It  is  almost 
needless  to  add  that  on  the  day  following  the  maniac  was 
conveyed  to  the  State  Lunatic  Asylum,  and  that  shortly 
afterward  Bessie  opened  the  prison  gates  of  Henry  Fos- 
ter, and  told  him  of  his  absolution  from  charge  of  crime. 

"  And  now  I  want  the  whole  world  to  get  on  its  knees 
and  ask  your  pardon,"  she  said,  after  a  long  scene  of 
tenderer  words  than  must  be  reported. 

"  If  the  world  should  ask  pardon  for  all  its  blunders," 
he  said,  with  a  smile,  "  it  would  pass  its  whole  time  in 
penance,  and  would  n't  make  its  living.  Human  life  is 
like  science,  a  sequence  of  mistakes,  with  generally  a 
true  direction." 

One  must  stick  to  one's  character.  A  philosopher  is 
nothing  if  not  philosophical. 


THE   IRON   SHROUD. 

BY  WILLIAM  MUDFORD. 

SHE  castle  of  the  Prince  of  Tolfi  was  built  on  the 
summit  of  the  towering  and  precipitous  rock  of 
Scylla,  and  commanded  a  magnificent  view  of 
Sicily  in  all  its  grandeur.  Here,  during  the  wars  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  when  the  fertile  plains  of  Italy  were  devas- 
tated by  hostile  factions,  those  prisoners  were  confined, 
for  whose  ransom  a  costly  price  was  demanded.  Here, 
too,  in  a  dungeon  excavated  deep  in  the  solid  rock,  the 
miserable  victim  was  immured,  whom  revenge  pursued, 
—  the  dark,  fierce,  and  unpitying  revenge  of  an  Italian 
heart. 

VIVENZIO,  —  the  noble  and  the  generous,  the  fearless 
in  battle,  and  the  pride  of  Naples  in  her  sunny  hours  of 
peace, — the  young,  the  brave,  the  proud  Vivenzio, — 
fell  beneath  this  subtle  and  remorseless  spirit.  He  was 
the  prisoner  of  Tolfi ;  and  he  languished  in  that  rock- 
encircled  dungeon,  which  stood  alone,  and  whose  portals 
never  opened  twice  upon  a  living  captive. 

It  had  the  semblance  of  a  vast  cage ;  for  the  roof  and 
floor  and  sides  were  of  iron,  solidly  wrought  and  spa- 


THE   IRON    SHROUD.  109 

ciously  constructed.  High  above  ran  a  range  of  seven 
grated  windows,  guarded  with  massy  bars  of  the  same 
metal,  which  admitted  light  and  air.  Save  these,  and 
the  tall  folding-doors  beneath  them,  which  occupied  the 
centre,  no  chink  or  chasm  or  projection  broke  the 
smooth,  black  surface  of  the  walls.  An  iron  bedstead, 
littered  with  straw,  stood  in  one  corner,  and,  beside  it, 
a  vessel  of  water,  and  a  coarse  dish  filled  with  coarser 
food. 

Even  the  intrepid  soul  of  Vivenzio  shrunk  with  dismay 
as  he  entered  this  abode,  and  heard  the  ponderous  doors 
triple-locked  by  the  silent  ruffians  who  conducted  him  to 
it.  Their  silence  seemed  prophetic  of  his  fate,  of  the 
living  grave  that  had  been  prepared  for  him.  His  men- 
aces and  his  entreaties,  his  indignant  appeals  for  justice, 
and  his  impatient  questioning  of  their  intentions,  were 
alike  vain.  They  listened  but  spoke  not.  Fit  ministers 
of  a  crime  that  should  have  no  tongue ! 

How  dismal  was  the  sound  of  their  retiring  steps ! 
And,  as  their  faint  echoes  died  along  the  winding  pas- 
sages, a  fearful  presage  grew  within  him,  that  never- 
more the  face  or  voice  or  tread  of  man  would  greet  his 
senses.  He  had  seen  human  beings  for  the  last  time ! 
And  he  had  looked  his  last  upon  the  bright  sky  and  upon 
the  smiling  earth  and  upon  a  beautiful  world  he  loved, 
and  whose  minion  he  had  been !  Here  he  was  to  end 
his  life,  —  a  life  he  had  just  begun  to  revel  in !  And  by 
what  means  ?  By  secret  poison  ?  or  by  murderous  as- 
sault ?  No ;  for  then  it  had  been  needless  to  bring  him 
thither.  Famine,  perhaps,  —  a  thousand  deaths  in  one  ! 
It  was  terrible  to  think  of  it ;  but  it  was  yet  more  tern- 


110  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

ble  to  picture  long,  long  years  of  captivity  in  a  solitude 
so  appalling,  a  loneliness  so  dreary,  that  thought,  for 
want  of  fellowship,  would  lose  itself  in  madness,  or  stag- 
nate into  idiocy. 

He  could  not  hope  to  escape,  unless  he  had  the  power, 
with  his  bare  hands,  of  rending  asunder  the  solid  iron 
walls  of  his  prison.  He  could  not  hope  for  liberty  from 
the  relenting  mercies  of  his  enemy.  His  instant  death, 
under  any  form  of  refined  cruelty,  was  not  the  object  of 
Tolfi ;  for  he  might  have  inflicted  it,  and  he  had  not.  It 
was  too  evident,  therefore,  he  was  reserved  for  some 
premeditated  scheme  of  subtle  vengeance ;  and  what 
vengeance  could  transcend  in  fiendish  malice,  either  the 
slow  death  of  famine,  or  the  still  slower  one  of  solitary 
incarceration  till  the  last  lingering  spark  of  life  expired, 
or  till  reason  fled,  and  nothing  should  remain  to  perish 
but  the  brute  functions  of  the  body  ? 

It  was  evening  when  Vivenzio  entered  his  dungeon ; 
and  the  approaching  shades  of  night  wrapped  it  in  total 
darkness,  as  he  paced  up  and  down,  revolving  in  his 
mind  these  horrible  forebodings.  No  tolling  bell  from  the 
castle,  or  from  any  neighboring  church  or  convent,  struck 
upon  his  ears  to  tell  how  the  hours  passed.  Frequently 
he  would  stop  and  listen  for  some  sound  that  might  be- 
token the  vicinity  of  man ;  but  the  solitude  of  the  desert, 
the  silence  of  the  tomb,  are  not  so  still  and  deep  as  the 
oppressive  desolation  by  which  he  was  encompassed. 
His  heart  sunk  within  him,  and  he  threw  himself 
dejectedly  upon  his  couch  of  straw.  Here  sleep  gradu- 
ally obliterated  the  consciousness  of  misery ;  and  bland 
dreams  wafted  bis  delighted  spirit  to  scenes  which  were 


THE   IRON   SHROUD.  Ill 

once  glowing  realities  for  him,  in  whose  ravishing  illu- 
sions he  soon  lost  the  remembrance  that  he  was  Tolfi's 
prisoner. 

When  he  awoke,  it  was  daylight ;  but  how  long  he 
had  slept  he  knew  not.  It  might  be  early  morning,  or 
it  might  be  sultry  noon ;  for  he  could  measure  time  by 
no  other  note  of  its  progress  than  light  and  darkness. 
He  had  been  so  happy  in  his  sleep,  amid  friends  who 
loved  him,  and  the  sweeter  endearments  of  those  who 
loved  him  as  friends  could  not,  that,  in  the  first  mo- 
ments of  waking,  his  startled  mind  seemed  to  admit 
the  knowledge  of  his  situation,  as  if  it  had  burst  upon 
it  for  the  first  time,  fresh  in  all  its  appalling  horrors. 
He  gazed  round  with  an  air  of  doubt  and  amazement, 
and  took  up  a  handful  of  the  straw  upon  which  he  lay, 
as  though  he  would  ask  himself  what  it  meant.  But 
memory,  too  faithful  to  her  office,  soon  unveiled  the 
melancholy  past,  while  reason,  shuddering  at  the  task, 
flashed  before  his  eyes  the  tremendous  future.  The 
contrast  overpowered  him.  He  remained  for  some  time 
lamenting,  like  a  truth,  the  bright  visions  that  had  van- 
ished, and  recoiling  from  the  present,  which  clung  to 
him  as  a  poisoned  garment. 

When  he  grew  more  calm,  he  surveyed  his  gloomy 
dungeon.  Alas  !  the  stronger  light  of  day  only  served 
to  confirm  what  the  gloomy  indistinctness  of  the  pre- 
ceding evening  had  partially  disclosed,  —  the  utter  im- 
possibility of  escape.  As,  however,  his  eyes  wandered 
round  and  round,  and  from  place  to  place,  he  noticed 
two  circumstances  which  excited  his  surprise  and  curi- 
osity. The  one,  he  thought,  might  be  fancy;  but  the 


112  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

other  was  positive.  His  pitcher  of  water,  and  the  dish 
which  contained  his  food,  had  been  removed  from  his 
side  while  he  slept,  and  now  stood  near  the  door.  Were 
he  even  inclined  to  doubt  this,  by  supposing  he  had  mis- 
taken the  spot  where  he  saw  them  over  night,  he  could 
not ;  for  the  pitcher  now  in  his  dungeon  was  neither 
of  the  same  form  nor  color  as  the  other,  while  the  food 
was  changed  for  some  other  of  better  quality.  He  had 
been  visited  therefore  during  the  night.  But  how  had 
the  person  obtained  entrance  ?  Could  he  have  slept 
so  soundly  that  the  unlocking  and  opening  of  those  pon- 
derous portals  were  effected  without  waking  him  ?  He 
would  have  said  this  was  not  possible,  but  that,  in 
doing  so,  he  must  admit  a  greater  difficulty,  an  entrance 
by  other  means,  of  which,  he  was  convinced,  none  ex- 
isted. It  was  not  intended,  then,  that  he  should  be  left 
to  perish  from  hunger;  but  the  secret  and  mysterious 
mode  of  supplying  him  with  food  seemed  to  indicate 
he  was  to  have  no  opportunity  of  communicating  with  a 
human  being. 

The  other  circumstance  which  had  attracted  his  notice 
was  the  disappearance,  as  he  believed,  of  one  of  the 
seven  grated  windows  that  ran  along  the  top  of  his 
prison.  He  felt  confident  that  he  had  observed  and 
counted  them ;  for  he  was  rather  surprised  at  their  num- 
ber, and  there  was  something  peculiar  in  their  form,  as 
well  as  in  the  manner  of  their  arrangement,  at  unequal 
distances.  It  was  so  much  easier,  however,  to  suppose 
he  was  mistaken,  than  that  a  portion  of  the  solid  iron, 
which  formed  the  walls,  could  have  escaped  from  its  posi' 
tion,  that  he  soon  dismissed  the  thought  from  his  mind. 


THE    IEON    SHROUD.  113 

Yivenzio  partook  of  the  food  that  was  before  him 
without  apprehension.  It  might  be  poisoned  ;  but,  if  it 
were,  he  knew  he  t:ould  not  escape  death,  should  such 
be  the  design  of  Tolfi  ;  and  the  quickest  death  would  be 
the  speediest  relief. 

The  day  passed  wearily  and  gloomily,  though  not 
without  a  faint  hope  that,  by  keeping  watch  at  night,  he 
might  observe  when  the  person  came  again  to  bring  him 
food,  which  he  supposed  he  would  do  in  the  same  way 
as  before.  The  mere  thought  of  being  approached  by  a 
living  creature,  and  the  opportunity  it  might  present  of 
learning  the  doom  prepared  or  preparing  for  him,  im- 
parted some  comfort.  Besides,  if  he  came  alone,  might 
he  not  in  a  furious  onset  overpower  him  ?  Or  he  might 
be  accessible  to  pity,  or  the  influence  of  such  munificent 
rewards  as  he  could  bestow  if  once  more  at  liberty,  and 
master  of  himself.  Say  he  were  armed.  The  worst  that 
could  befall,  if  nor  bribe  nor  prayers  nor  force  prevailed, 
was  a  faithful  blow,  which,  though  dealt  in  a  damned 
cause,  might  work  a  desired  end.  There  was  no  chance 
so  desperate  but  it  looked  lovely  in  Vivenzio's  eyes, 
compared  with  the  idea  of  being  totally  abandoned. 

The  night  came,  and  Vivenzio  watched.  Morning 
came,  and  Vivenzio  was  confounded !  He  must  have 
slumbered  without  knowing  it.  Sleep  must  have  stolen 
over  him  when  exhausted  by  fatigue  ;  and,  in  that  inter- 
val of  feverish  repose,  he  had  been  baffled:  for  there 
stood  his  replenished  pitcher  of  water,  and  there  his 
day's  meal !  Nor  was  this  all.  Casting  his  looks  to- 
ward the  windows  of  his  dungeon,  he  counted  but  FIVE  ! 
Here  was  no  deception ;  and  he  was  now  convinced  there 

H 


LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

had  been  none  the  day  before.  But  what  did  all  this 
portend  ?  Into  what  strange  and  mysterious  den  had  he 
been  cast  ?  He  gazed  till  his  eyes  ached ;  he  could 
discover  nothing  to  explain  the  mystery.  That  it  was 
so,  he  knew.  Why  it  was  so,  he  racked  his  imagina- 
tion in  vain  to  conjecture.  He  examined  the  doors.  A 
simple  circumstance  convinced  him  they  had  not  been 
opened. 

A  wisp  of  straw,  which  he  had  carelessly  thrown 
against  them  the  preceding  day,  as  he  paced  to  and  fro, 
remained  where  he  had  cast  it,  though  it  must  have  been 
displaced  by  the  slightest  motion  of  either  of  the  doors. 
This  was  evidence  that  could  not  be  disputed;  and  it 
followed  there  must  be  some  secret  machinery  in  the 
walls  by  which  a  person  could  enter.  He  inspected  them 
closely.  They  appeared  to  him  one  solid  and  compact 
mass  of  iron;  or  joined,  if  joined  they  were,  with  such 
nice  art  that  no  mark  of  division  was  perceptible.  Again 
and  again  he  surveyed  them,  and  the  floor  and  the  roof, 
and  that  range  of  visionary  windows,  as  he  was  now 
almost  tempted  to  consider  them :  he  could  discover 
nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  to  relieve  his  doubts  or  sat- 
isfy his  curiosity.  Sometimes  he  fancied  that  altogether 
the  dungeon  had  a  more  contracted  appearance, — that 
it  looked  smaller ;  but  this  he  ascribed  to  fancy,  and  the 
impression  naturally  produced  upon  his  mind  by  the  un- 
deniable disappearance  of  two  of  the  windows. 

With  intense  anxiety,  Vivenzio  looked  forward  to  the 
return  of  night ;  and,  as  it  approached,  he  resolved  that 
no  treacherous  sleep  should  again  betray  him.  Instead 
of  seeking  his  bed  of  straw,  he  continued  to  walk  up  and 


THE    IRON    SHEOUD.  115 

down  his  dungeon  till  daylight,  straining  his  eyes  in 
every  direction  through  the  darkness,  to  watch  for  any 
appearances  that  might  explain  these  mysteries.  While 
thus  engaged,  and,  as  nearly  as  he  could  judge  (by  the 
time  that  afterward  elapsed  before  the  morning  came  in), 
about  two  o'clock,  there  was  a  slight,  tremulous  motion, 
of  the  floors.  He  stooped.  The  motion  lasted  nearly 
a  minute  :  but  it  was  so  extremely  gentle  that  he  almost 
doubted  whether  it  was  real,  or  only  imaginary.  He  lis- 
tened. Not  a  sound  could  be  heard.  Presently,  how- 
ever, he  felt  a  rush  of  cold  air  blow  upon  him ;  and, 
dashing  toward  the  quarter  whence  it  seemed  to  proceed, 
he  stumbled  over  something  which  he  judged  to  be  the 
water  ewer.  The  rush  of  cold  air  was  no  longer  percep- 
tible ;  and,  as  Vivenzio  stretched  out  his  hands,  he  found 
himself  close  to  the  walls.  He  reniained  motionless  for 
a  considerable  time ;  but  nothing  occurred  during  the 
remainder  of  the  night  to  excite  his  attention,  though  he 
continued  to  watch  with  unabated  vigilance. 

The  first  approaches  of  the  morning  were  visible 
through  the  grated  windows,  breaking,  with  faint  divis- 
ions of  light,  the  darkness  that  still  pervaded  every  other 
part,  long  before  Vivenzio  was  enabled  to  distinguish  any 
object  in  his  dungeon.  Instinctively  and  fearfully  he 
turned  his  eyes,  hot  and  inflamed  with  watching,  toward 
them.  There  were  FOUK  !  He  could  see  only  four :  but 
it  might  be  that  some  intervening  object  prevented  the 
fifth  from  becoming  perceptible ;  and  he  waited  impa- 
tiently to  ascertain  if  it  were  so.  As  the  light  strength- 
ened, however,  and  penetrated  every  corner  of  the  cell, 
other  objects  of  amazement  struck  his  sight.  On  the 


116  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

ground  lay  the  broken  fragments  of  the  pitcher  he  had 
used  the  day  before,  and,  at  a  small  distance  from  them, 
nearer  to  the  wall,  stood  the  one  he  had  noticed  the  first 
night.  It  was  filled  with  water,  and  beside  it  was  his 
food.  He  was  now  certain,  that,  by  some  mechanical 
contrivance,  an  opening  was  obtained  through  the  iron 
wall,  and  that  through  this  opening  the  current  of  air 
had  found  entrance.  But  how  noiseless !  for,  had  a 
feather  even  waved  at  the  time,  he  must  have  heard  it. 
Again  he  examined  that  part  of  the  wall;  but  both  to 
sight  and  touch  it  appeared  one  even  and  uniform  sur- 
face, while,  to  repeated  and  violent  blows,  there  was  no 
reverberating  sound  indicative  of  hollowness. 

This  perplexing  mystery  had  for  a  time  withdrawn  his 
thoughts  from  the  windows  ;  but  now,  directing  his  eyes 
again  toward  them,  he  saw  that  the  fifth  had  disappeared 
in  the  same  manner  as  the  preceding  two,  without  the 
least  distinguishable  alteration  of  external  appearances. 
The  remaining  four  looked  as  the  seven  had  originally 
looked ;  that  is,  occupying  at  irregular  distances  the  top 
of  the  wall  on  that  side  of  the  dungeon.  The  tall  folding- 
door,  too,  still  seemed  to  stand  beneath,  in  the  centre  of 
these  four,  as  it  had  first  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  seven. 
But  he  could  no  longer  doubt  what,  on  the  preceding 
day,  he  fancied  might  be  the  effect  of  visual  deception. 
The  dungeon  was  smaller.  The  roof  had  lowered ;  and 
the  opposite  ends  had  contracted  the  intermediate  dis- 
tance by  a  space  equal,  he  thought,  to  that  over  which 
the  three  windows  had  extended.  He  was  bewildered 
in  vain  imaginings  to  account  for  these  things.  Some 
frightful  purpose,  some  devilish  torture  of  mind  or  body, 


THE    IRON    SHROUD.  117 

some  unheard-of  device  for  producing  exquisite  misery, 
lurked,  he  was  sure,  in  what  had  taken  place. 

Oppressed  with  this  belief,  and  distracted  more  by  the 
dreadful  uncertainty  of  whatever  fate  impended  than  he 
could  be  dismayed,  he  thought,  by  the  knowledge  of  the 
worst,  he  sat  ruminating,  hour  after  hour,  yielding  his 
fears  in  succession  to  every  haggard  fancy.  At  last  a 
horrible  suspicion  flashed  suddenly  across  his  mind,  and 
he  started  up  with  a  frantic  air.  "  Yes  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
looking  wildly  round  his  dungeon,  and  shuddering  as  he 
spoke,  —  "  yes  !  it  must  be  so  !  I  see  it !  I  feel  the 
maddening  truth  like  scorching  flames  upon  my  brain ! 
Eternal  God !  support  me !  it  must  be  so  !  Yes,  yes, 
that  is  to  be  my  fate !  Yon  roof  will  descend !  these 
walls  will  hem  me  round,  and  slowly,  slowly,  crush  me 
in  their  iron  arms !  Lord  God !  look  down  upon  me, 
and  in  mercy  strike  me  with  instant  death  !  O  fiend  \ 
O  devil !  —  is  this  your  revenge  ?  " 

He  dashed  himself  upon  the  ground  in  agony,  tears 
burst  from  him,  and  the  sweat  stood  in  large  drops  upon 
his  face  :  he  sobbed  aloud,  he  tore  his  hair,  he  rolled 
about  like  one  suffering  intolerable  anguish  of  body, 
and  would  have  bitten  the  iron  floor  beneath  him ;  he 
breathed  fearful  curses  upon  Tolfi,  and  the  next  moment 
passionate  prayers  to  Heaven  for  immediate  death.  Then 
the  violence  of  his  grief  became  exhausted ;  and  he  lay 
still,  weeping  as  a  child  would  weep.  T*he  twilight  of 
departing  day  shed  its  gloom  around  him  ere  he  arose 
from  that  posture  of  utter  and  hopeless  sorrow.  He  had 
taken  no  food.  Not  one  drop  of  water  had  cooled  the 
fever  of  his  parched  lips.  Sleep  had  not  visited  his  eyes 


118  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

for  six-and-thirty  hours.  He  was  faint  with  hunger; 
weary  with  watching,  and  with  the  excess  of  his  emo- 
tions. He  tasted  of  his  food ;  he  drank  with  avidity  of 
the  water,  and  reeling,  like  a  drunken  man,  to  his  straw, 
cast  himself  upon  it  to  brood  again  over  the  appalling 
image  that  had  fastened  itself  upon  his  almost  frenzied 
thoughts. 

He  slept;  but  his  slumbers  were  not  tranquil.  He 
resisted,  as  long  as  he  could,  their  approach ;  and  when, 
at  last,  enfeebled  nature  yielded  to  their  influence, 
he  found  no  oblivion  from  his  cares.  Terrible  dreams 
haunted  him ;  ghastly  visions  harrowed  up  his  imagina- 
tion ;  he  shouted  and  screamed,  as  if  he  already  felt  the 
dungeon's  ponderous  roof  descending  on  him ;  he  breathed 
hard  and  thick,  as  though  writhing  between  its  iron  walls. 
Then  would  he  spring  up,  stare  wildly  about  him,  stretch 
forth  his  hands  to  be  sure  he  yet  had  space  enough  to 
live,  and,  muttering  some  incoherent  words,  sink  down 
again,  to  pass  through  the  same  fierce  vicissitudes  of  de- 
lirious sleep. 

The  morning  of  the  fourth  day  dawned  upon  Vivenzio ; 
but  it  was  high  noon  before  his  mind  shook  off  its  stupor, 
or  he  awoke  to  a  full  consciousness  of  his  situation. 
And  what  a  fixed  energy  of  despair  sat  upon  his  pale 
features  as  he  cast  his  eyes  upwards,  and  gazed  upon  the 
THREE  windows  that  now  alone  remained  !  The  three  ! 
>here  were  no  more !  and  they  seemed  to  number  his  own 
Allotted  days.  Slowly  and  calmly  he  next  surveyed  the 
top  and  sides,  and  comprehended  all  the  meaning  of  the 
diminished  height  of  the  former,  as  well  as  of  the  gradual 
approximation  of  the  latter.  The  contracted  dimensions 


THE    1HON    SHROUD.  119 

of  his  mysterious  prison  were  now  too  gross  and  palpable 
to  be  the  juggle  of  his  heated  imagination. 

Still  lost  in  wonder  at  the  means,  Vivenzio  could  put 
no  cheat  upon  his  reason  as  to  the  end.  By  what  horri- 
ble ingenuity  it  was  contrived,  that  walls  and  roofs  and 
windows  should  thus  silently  and  imperceptibly,  without 
noise  and  without  motion,  almost  fold,  as  it  were,  within 
each  other,  he  knew  not.  He  only  knew  they  did  so ; 
and  he  vainly  strove  to  persuade  himself  it  was  the  inten- 
tion of  the  contriver  to  rack  the  miserable  wretch  who 
might  be  immured  there  with  anticipation  merely  of  a  fate 
from  which,  in  the  very  crisis  of  his  agony,  he  was  to  be 
reprieved. 

Gladly  would  he  have  clung  even  to  this  possibility,  if 
his  heart  would  have  let  him ;  but  he  felt  a  dreadful  as- 
surance of  its  fallacy.  And  what  matchless  inhumanity 
it  was  to  doom  the  sufferer  to  such  lingering  torments ; 
to  lead  him  day  by  day  to  so  appalling  a  death,  unsup- 
ported by  the  consolations  of  religion,  unvisited  by  any 
human  being,  abandoned  to  himself,  deserted  of  all,  and 
denied  even  the  sad  privilege  of  knowing  that  his  cruel 
destiny  would  awaken  pity  !  Alone  he  was  to  perish ! 
Alone  he  was  to  wait  a  slow-coming  torture,  whose  most 
exquisite  pangs  would  be  inflicted  by  that  very  solitude 
and  that  tardy  coming. 

"  It  is  not  death  I  fear,"  he  exclaimed,  "  but  the  death 
I  must  prepare  for  !  Methinks,  too,  I  could  meet  even 
that,  all  horrible  and  revolting  as  it  is,  —  if  it  might  over- 
take me  now.  But  where  shall  I  find  fortitude  to  tarry 
till  it  come  ?  How  can  I  outlive  the  three  long  days  and 
nights  I  have  to  live  ?  There  is  no  power  within  me  to 


120  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

bid  the  hideous  spectre  hence ;  none  to  make  it  familiar 
to  my  thoughts,  or  myself  patient  of  its  errand.  My 
thoughts  rather  will  flee  from  me,  and  I  grow  mad  in 
looking  at  it.  Oh !  for  a  deep  sleep  to  fall  upon  me ! 
That  so,  in  death's  likeness,  I  might  embrace  death  it- 
self, and  drink  no  more  of  the  cup  that  is  presented  to  me 
than  my  fainting  spirit  has  already  tasted  !  " 

In  the  midst  of  these  lamentations,  Vivenzio  noticed 
that  his  accustomed  meal,  with  the  pitcher  of  water,  had 
been  conveyed,  as  before,  into  his  dungeon.  But  this 
circumstance  no  longer  excited  his  surprise.  His  mind 
was  overwhelmed  with  others  of  a  far  greater  magnitude. 
It  suggested,  however,  a  feeble  hope  of  deliverance ;  and 
there  is  no  hope  so  feeble  as  not  to  yield  some  support  to 
a  heart  bending  under  despair.  He  resolved  to  watch, 
during  the  ensuing  night,  for  the  signs  he  had  before  ob- 
served, and,  should  he  again  feel  the  gentle,  tremulous 
motion  of  the  floor,  or  the  current  of  air,  to  seize  that  mo- 
ment for  giving  audible  expression  to  his  misery.  Some 
person  must  be  near  him,  and  within  reach  of  his  voice, 
at  the  instant  when  his  food  was  supplied ;  some  one,  per- 
haps, susceptible  of  pity.  Or,  if  not,  to  be  told  even  that 
his  apprehensions  were  just,  and  that  his  fate  was  to  be 
what  he  foreboded,  would  be  preferable  to  a  suspense 
which  hung  upon  the  possibility  of  his  worst  fears  being 
visionary. 

The  night  came;  and,  as  the  hour  approached  when 
Vivenzio  imagined  he  might  expect  the  signs,  he  stood 
fixed  and  silent  as  a  statue.  He  feared  to  breathe,  al- 
most, lest  he  might  lose  any  sound  which  would  warn 
him  of  their  coining.  While  thus  listening,  with  every 


THE    IRON    SHROUD.  121 

faculty  of  mind  and  body  strained  to  an  agony  of  atten- 
tion, it  occurred  to  him  he  should  be  more  sensible  of 
the  motion,  probably,  if  he  stretched  himself  along  the 
iron  floor.  He  accordingly  laid  himself  softly  down,  and 
had  not  been  long  in  that  position  when  —  yes  —  he  was 
certain  of  it  —  the  floor  moved  under  him  !  He  sprang 
up,  and,  in  a  voice  suffocated  nearly  with  emotion,  called 
aloud.  He  paused  —  the  motion  ceased  —  he  felt  no 
stream  of  air  —  all  was  hushed  —  no  voice  answered  to 
his  —  he  burst  into  tears  ;  and,  as  he  sunk  to  the  ground, 
in  renewed  anguish,  exclaimed,  "  O  my  God !  my  God ! 
You  alone  have  power  to  save  me  now,  or  strengthen  me 
for  the  trial  you  permit." 

Another  morning  dawned  upon  the  wretched  captive, 
and  the  fatal  index  of  his  doom  met  his  eyes.  Two  win- 
dows !  —  and  two  days  —  and  all  would  be  over  !  Fresh 
food  —  fresh  water  !  The  mysterious  visit  had  been  paid, 
though  he  had  implored  it  in  vain.  But  how  awfully  was 
his  prayer  answered  in  what  he  now  saw !  The  roof  of 
the  dungeon  was  within  a  foot  of  his  head.  The  two 
ends  were  so  near  that  in  six  paces  he  trod  the  space 
between  them.  Vivenzio  shuddered  as  he  gazed,  and  as 
his  steps  traversed  the  narrow  area ;  but  his  feelings  no 
longer  vented  themselves  in  frantic  wailings.  With  fold- 
ed arms,  and  clenched  teeth ;  with  eyes  that  were  blood- 
shot from  much  watching,  and  fixed  with  a  vacant  glare 
upon  the  ground ;  with  a  hard,  quick  breathing,  and  a 
hurried  walk,  —  he  strode  backward  and  forward  in  silent 
musing  for  several  hours.  What  mind  shall  conceive, 
what  tongue  utter,  or  what  pen  describe,  the  dark  and 
terrible  character  of  his  thoughts?  Like  the  fate  that 


122  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

moulded  them,  they  had  no  similitude  in  the  wide  range 
of  this  world's  agony  for  man.  Suddenly  he  stopped, 
and  his  eyes  were  riveted  upon  that  part  of  the  wall 
which  was  over  his  bed  of  straw.  Words  are  inscribed 
there  !  A  human  language,  traced  by  a  human  hand ! 
He  rushes  toward  them ;  but  his  blood  freezes  as  he 
reads,  — 

"  I,  Ludovicc  Sforza,  tempted  by  the  gold  of  the  Prince 
of  Tolfi,  spent  three  years  in  contriving  and  executing 
this  accursed  triumph  of  my  art.  When  it  was  completed, 
the  perfidious  Tolfi,  more  devil  than  man,  who  conducted 
me  hither  one  morning  to  be  witness,  as  he  said,  of  its 
perfection,  doomed  me  to  be  the  first  victim  of  my  own 
pernicious  skill;  lest,  as  he  declared,  I  should  divulge 
the  secret,  or  repeat  the  effort  of  my  ingenuity.  May 
God  pardon  him,  as  I  hope  he  will  me,  that  ministered 
to  his  unhallowed  purpose.  Miserable  wretch,  whoe'er 
thou  art,  that  readest  these  lines,  fall  on  thy  knees,  and 
invoke,  as  I  have  done,  His  sustaining  mercy  who  alone 
can  nerve  thee  to  meet  the  vengeance  of  Tolfi,  armed 
with  his  tremendous  engine  which,  in  a  few  hours,  must 
crush  you,  as  it  will  the  needy  wretch  who  made  it." 

A  deep  groan  burst  from  Vivenzio.  He  stood,  like 
one  transfixed,  with  dilated  eyes,  expanded  nostrils,  and 
quivering  lips,  gazing  at  this  fatal  inscription.  It  was  as 
if  a  voice  from  the  sepulchre  had  sounded  in  his  ears, 
"Prepare."  Hope  forsook  him.  There  was  his  sen- 
tence, recorded  in  those  dismal  words.  The  future  stood 
unveiled  before  him,  ghastly  and  appalling.  His  brain 
already  feels  the  descending  horror ;  his  bones  seem  to 
crack  and  crumble  in  the  mighty  grasp  of  the  iron  walls  ! 


THE    IEON    SHROUD.  123 

Unknowing  what  it  is  he  does,  he  fumbles  in  his  garment 
for  some  weapon  of  self-destruction.  He  clenches  his 
throat  in  his  convulsive  gripe,  as  though  he  would  stran- 
gle himself  at  once.  He  stares  upon  the  walls  ;  and  his 
warring  spirit  demands,  "  Will  they  not  anticipate  their 
office  if  I  dash  my  head  against  them  ?  "  An  hysterical 
laugh  chokes  him  as  he  exclaims,  "  Why  should  I  ?  He 
was  but  a  man  who  died  first  in  their  fierce  embrace ; 
and  I  should  be  less  than  man  not  to  do  as  much ! " 

The  evening  sun  was  descending,  and  Vivenzio  beheld 
its  golden  beams  streaming  through  one  of  the  windows. 
What  a  thrill  of  joy  shot  through  his  soul  at  the  sight ! 
It  was  a  precious  link  that  united  him,  for  the  moment, 
with  the  world  beyond.  There  was  ecstasy  in  the 
thought. 

As  he  gazed,  long  and  earnestly,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
windows  had  lowered  sufficiently  for  him  to  reach  them. 
With  one  bound,  he  was  beneath  them ;  with  one  wild 
spring,  he  clung  to  the  bars.  Whether  it  was  so  con- 
trived, purposely  to  madden  with  delight  the  wretch  who 
looked,  he  knew  not ;  but,  at  the  extremity  of  a  long  vista 
cut  through  the  solid  rocks,  the  ocean,  the  sky,  the  set- 
ting sun,  olive  groves,  shady  walks,  and,  in  the  farthest 
distance,  delicious  glimpses  of  magnificent  Sicily,  burst 
upon  his  sight.  How  exquisite  was  the  cool  breeze  as  it 
swept  across  his  cheek,  loaded  with  fragrance  !  He  in- 
haled it  as  though  it  were  the  breath  of  continued  life. 
And  there  was  a  freshness  in  the  landscape,  and  in  the 
rippling  of  the  calm,  green  sea,  that  fell  upon  his  wither- 
ing heart  like  dew  upon  the  parched  earth.  How  he 
gazed,  and  panted,  and  still  clung  to  his  hold  1  some- 


124  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

times  hanging  by  one  hand,  sometimes  by  the  other,  and 
then  grasping  the  bars  with  both,  as  loath  to  quit  the 
smiling  paradise  outstretched  before  him ;  till,  exhausted, 
and  his  hands  swollen  and  benumbed,  he  dropped  help- 
less down,  and  lay  stunned  for  a  considerable  time  by  the 
fall. 

When  he  recovered,  the  glorious  vision  had  vanished. 
He  was  in  darkness.  He  doubted  whether  it  was  not 
a  dream  that  had  passed  before  his  sleeping  fancy, 
but  gradually  his  scattered  thoughts  returned,  and  with 
them  came  remembrance.  Yes !  he  had  looked  once 
again  upon  the  gorgeous  splendor  of  nature !  Once 
again  his  eyes  had  trembled  beneath  their  veiled  lids  at 
the  sun's  radiance,  and  sought  repose  in  the  soft  verdure 
of  the  olive-tree  or  the  gentle  swell  of  undulating  waves. 
O  that  he  were  a  mariner,  exposed  upon  those  waves  to 
the  worst  fury  of  storm  and  tempest,  or  a  very  wretch, 
loathsome  with  disease,  plague-stricken,  and  his  body  one 
leprous  contagion  from  crown  to  sole,  hunted  forth  to 
gasp  out  the  remnant  of  infectious  life  beneath  those  ver- 
dant trees,  so  he  might  shun  the  destiny  upon  whose  edge 
he  tottered ! 

Vain  thoughts  like  these  would  steal  over  his  mind  from 
time  to  time,  in  spite  of  himself;  but  they  scarcely  moved 
it  from  that  stupor  into  which  it  had  sunk,  and  which 
kept  him,  during  the  whole  night,  like  one  who  had  been 
drugged  with  opium.  He  was  equally  insensible  to  the 
calls  of  hunger  and  of  thirst,  though  the  third  day  was 
now  commencing  since  even  a  drop  of  water  had  passed 
his  lips.  He  remained  on  the  ground,  sometimes  sitting, 
sometimes  lying ;  at  intervals  sleeping  heavily,  and,  when 


THE    IRON    SHROUD.  125 

not  sleeping,  silently  brooding  over  what  was  to  come, 
or  talking  aloud,  in  disordered  speech,  of  his  wrongs,  of 
his  friends,  of  his  home,  and  of  those  he  loved,  with  a 
confused  mingling  of  all. 

In  this  pitiable  condition,  the  sixth  and  last  morning 
dawned  upon  Vivenzio,  if  dawn  it  might  be  called,  —  the 
dim,  obscure  light  which  faintly  struggled  through  the 
ONE  SOLITARY  window  of  his  dungeon.  He  could  hardly 
be  said  to  notice  the  melancholy  token.  And  yet  he  did 
notice  it ;  for,  as  he  raised  his  eyes  and  saw  the  porten- 
tous sign,  there  was  a  slight  convulsive  distortion  of  his 
countenance.  But  what  did  attract  his  notice,  and  at 
the  sight  of  which  his  agitation  was  excessive,  was  the 
change  the  iron  bed  had  undergone.  It  was  a  bed  no 
longer.  It  stood  before  him,  the  visible  semblance  of  a 
funeral  couch  or  bier !  When  he  beheld  this,  he  started 
from  the  ground ;  and,  in  raising  himself,  suddenly  struck 
his  head  against  the  roof,  which  was  now  so  low  that  he 
could  no  longer  stand  upright.  "  God's  will  be  done  !  " 
was  all  he  said,  as  he  crouched  his  body,  and  placed  his 
hand  upon  the  bier ;  for  such  it  was.  The  iron  bedstead 
had  been  so  contrived,  by  the  mechanical  art  of  Ludovico 
Sforza,  that,  as  the  advancing  walls  came  in  contact  with 
its  head  and  feet,  a  pressure  was  produced  upon  con- 
cealed springs,  which,  when  made  to  play,  set  in  motion 
a  very  simple  though  ingeniously  contrived  machinery 
that  effected  the  transformation.  The  object  was,  of 
course,  to  heighten,  in  the  closing  scene  of  this  horrible 
drama,  all  the  feelings  of  despair  and  anguish  which  the 
preceding  one  had  aroused.  For  the  same  reason,  the 
last  window  was  so  made  as  to  admit  only  a  shadowy 


126  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

kind  of  gloom  rather  than  light,  that  the  wretched  cap- 
tive might  be  surrounded,  as  it  were,  with  every  seeming 
preparation  for  approaching  death. 

Vivenzio  seated  himself  on  his  bier.  Then  he  knelt 
and  prayed  fervently ;  and  sometimes  tears  would  gush 
from  him.  The  air  seemed  thick,  and  he  breathed  with 
difficulty ;  or  it  might  be  that  he  fancied  it  was  so,  from 
the  hot  and  narrow  limits  of  his  dungeon,  which  were 
now  so  diminished  that  he  could  neither  stand  up  nor 
lie  down  at  his  full  length.  But  his  wasted  spirits  and 
oppressed  mind  no  longer  struggled  with  him.  He  was 
past  hope,  and  fear  shook  him  no  more.  Happy  if  thus 
revenge  had  struck  its  final  blow;  for  he  would  have 
fallen  beneath  it  almost  unconscious  of  a  pang.  But 
such  a  lethargy  of  the  soul,  after  such  an  excitement  of 
its  fiercest  passions,  had  entered  into  the  diabolical  calcu- 
lations of  Tolfi ;  and  the  fell  artificer  of  his  designs  had 
imagined  a  counteracting  device. 

The  tolling  of  an  enormous  bell  struck  upon  the  ears 
of  Vivenzio!  He  started.  It  beat  but  once.  The 
sound  was  so  close  and  stunning  that  it  seemed  to 
shatter  his  very  brain,  while  it  echoed  through  the  rocky 
passages  like  reverberating  peals  of  thunder.  This  was 
followed  by  a  sudden  crash  of  the  roof  and  walls,  as  if 
they  were  about  to  fall  upon  and  close  around  him  at 
once.  Vivenzio  screamed,  and  instinctively  spread  forth 
his  arms,  as  though  he  had  a  giant's  strength  to  hold 
them  back.  They  had  moved  nearer  to  him,  and  were 
now  motionless.  Vivenzio  looked  up,  and  saw  the  roof 
almost  touching  his  head,  even  as  he  sat  cowering  be- 
neath it ;  and  he  felt  that  a  further  contraction  of  but  a 


THE    IRON    SHEOUD.  127 

few  inches  only  must  commence  the  frightful  operation. 
Housed  as  he  had  been,  he  now  gasped  for  breath.  His 
body  shook  violently ;  he  was  bent  nearly  double.  His 
hands  rested  upon  either  wall,  and  his  feet  were  drawn 
under  him  to  avoid  the  pressure  in  front.  Thus  he  re- 
mained for  more  than  an  hour,  when  that  deafening  bell 
beat  again,  and  again  came  the  crash  of  horrid  death. 
But  the  concussion  was  now  so  great  that  it  struck  Vi- 
venzio  down.  As  he  lay  gathered  up  in  lessened  bulk, 
the  bell  beat  loud  and  frequent ;  crash  succeeded  crash ; 
and  on  and  on  and  on  came  the  mysterious  engine  of 
death,  till  Vivenzio's  smothered  groans  were  heard  no 
more.  He  was  horribly  crushed  by  the  ponderous  roof 
and  collapsing  sides ;  and  the  flattened  bier  was  his  iron 
shroud. 


THE   BELL-TOWER. 

BY  HERMAN  MELVILLE. 

|N  the  South  of  Europe,  nigh  a  once  frescoed 
capital,  now  with  dank  mould  cankering  its 
bloom,  central  in  a  plain,  stands  what,  at  dis- 
tance, seems  the  black  mossed  stump  of  some  immeasur- 
able pine,  fallen,  in  forgotten  days,  with  Anak  and  the 
Titan. 

As  all  along  where  the  pine-tree  falls  its  dissolution 
leaves  a  mossy  mound,  —  last-flung  shadow  of  the  per- 
ished trunk,  never  lengthening,  never  lessening,  unsub- 
ject  to  the  fleet  falsities  of  the  sun,  shade  immutable, 
and  true  gauge  which  cometh  by  prostration,  —  so  west- 
ward from  what  seems  the  stump,  one  steadfast  spear  of 
licheued  ruin  veins  the  plain. 

From  that  tree-top,  what  birded  chimes  of  silver  throats 
had  rung.  A  stone  pine ;  a  metallic  aviary  in  its  crown : 
the  Bell-Tower,  built  by  the  great  mechanician,  the  un- 
blessed foundling,  Bannadonna. 

Like  Babel's,  its  base  was  laid  in  a  high  hour  of  reno- 
vated earth,  following  the  second  deluge,  when  the  wa- 
ters of  the  Dark  Ages  had  dried  up,  and  once  more  the 


THE    BELL-TOWER.  129 

green  appeared.  No  wonder  that,  after  so  long  and 
deep  submersion,  the  jubilant  expectation  of  the  race 
should,  as  with  Noah's  sons,  soar  into  Shinar  aspiration. 

In  firm  resolve,  no  man  in  Europe  at  that  period  went 
beyond  Bannadonna.  Enriched  through  commerce  with 
the  Levant,  the  state  in  which  he  lived  voted  to  have  the 
noblest  bell-tower  in  Italy.  His  repute  assigned  him  to 
be  architect. 

Stone  by  stone,  month  by  month,  the  tower  rose. 
Higher,  higher;  snail-like  in  pace,  but  torch  or  rocket 
in  its  pride. 

After  the  masons  would  depart,  the  builder,  standing 
alone  upon  its  ever-ascending  summit,  at  close  of  every 
day,  saw  that  he  overtopped  still  higher  walls  and  trees. 
He  would  tarry  till  a  late  hour  there,  wrapped  in  schemes 
of  other  and  still  loftier  piles.  Those  who  of  saints' 
days  thronged  the  spot,  —  hanging  to  the  rude  poles  of 
scaffolding,  like  sailors  on  yards  or  bees  on  boughs, 
unmindful  of  lime  and  dust  and  falling  chips  of  stone, 
—  their  homage  not  the  less  inspirited  him  to  self- 
esteem. 

At  length  the  holiday  of  the  Tower  came.  To  the 
sound  of  viols,  the  climax-stone  slowly  rose  in  air,  and, 
amid  the  firing  of  ordnance,  was  laid  by  Bannadonna's 
hands  upon  the  final  course.  Then  mounting  it,  he 
stood  erect,  alone,  with  folded  arms,  gazing  upon  the 
white  summits  of  blue  inland  Alps,  and  whiter  crests  of 
bluer  Alps  off-shore,  —  sights  invisible  from  the  plain. 
Invisible,  too,  from  thence  was  that  eye  he  turned  below, 
when,  like  the  cannon-booms,  came  up  to  him  the  peo- 
ple's combustions  of  applause. 

6»  I 


130  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

That  which  stirred  them  so  was,  seeing  with  what 
serenity  the  builder  stood  three  hundred  feet  in  air, 
upon  an  unrailed  perch.  This  none  but  he  durst  do. 
But  his  periodic  standing  upon  the  pile,  in  each  stage  of 
its  growth,  —  such  discipline  had  its  last  result. 

Little  remained  now  but  the  bells.  These,  in  all 
respects,  must  correspond  with  their  receptacle. 

The  minor  ones  were  prosperously  cast.  A  highly 
enriched  one  followed,  of  a  singular  make,  intended  for 
suspension  in  a  manner  before  unknown.  The  purpose 
of  this  bell,  its  rotary  motion,  and  connection  with  the 
clock-work,  also  executed  at  the  time,  will,  in  the  sequel, 
receive  mention. 

In  the  one  erection,  bell-tower  and  clock-tower  were 
united,  though  before  that  period  such  structures  had 
commonly  been  built  distinct ;  as  the  Campanile  and 
Torre  dell'  Orologio  of  St.  Mark  to  this  day  attest. 

But  it  was  upon  the  great  state-bell  that  the  founder 
lavished  his  more  daring  skill.  In  vain  did  some  of  the 
less  elated  magistrates  here  caution  him,  saying  that, 
though  truly  the  tower  was  Titanic,  yet  limit  should  be 
set  to  the  dependent  weight  of  its  swaying  masses.  But 
undeterred  he  prepared  his  mammoth  mould,  dented 
with  mythological  devices  ;  kindled  his  fires  of  balsamic 
rirs ;  melted  his  tin  and  copper,  and,  throwing  in  much 
plate  contributed  by  the  public  spirit  of  the  nobles,  let 
loose  the  tide. 

The  unleashed  metals  bayed  like  hounds.  The  work- 
men shrunk.  Through  their  fright,  fatal  harm  to  the 
bell  was  dreaded.  Fearless  as  Shadrach,  Bannadonna, 
rushing  through  the  glow,  smote  the  chief  culprit  with 


THE    BELL-TOWER.  131 

his  ponderous  ladle.  From  the  smitten  part  a  splinter 
was  dashed  into  the  seething  mass,  and  at  once  was 
melted  in. 

Next  day  a  portion  of  the  work  was  heedfully  uncov- 
ered. All  seemed  right.  Upon  the  third  morning,  with 
equal  satisfaction,  it  was  bared  still  lower.  At  length, 
like  some  old  Theban  king,  the  whole  cooled  casting  was 
disinterred.  All  was  fair  except  in  one  strange  spot. 
But  as  he  suffered  no  one  to  attend  him  in  these  inspec- 
tions, he  concealed  the  blemish  by  some  preparation 
which  none  knew  better  to  devise. 

The  casting  of  such  a  mass  was  deemed  no  small  tri- 
umph for  the  caster ;  one,  too,  in  which  the  state  might 
not  scorn  to  share.  The  homicide  was  overlooked.  By 
the  charitable  that  deed  was  but  imputed  to  sudden 
transports  of  aesthetic  passion,  not  to  any  flagitious  qual- 
ity, —  a  kick  from  an  Arabian  charger ;  not  sign  of  vice, 
but  blood.  His  felony  remitted  by  the  judge,  absolution 
given  him  by  the  priest,  what  more  could  even  a  sickly 
conscience  have  desired  ? 

Honoring  the  tower  and  its  builder  with  another  holi- 
day, the  republic  witnessed  the  hoisting  of  the  bells  and 
clock-work  amid  shows  and  pomps  superior  to  the  for- 
mer. 

Some  months  of  more  than  usual  solitude  on  Banna- 
donna's  part  ensued.  It  was  not  unknown  that  he  was 
engaged  upon  something  for  the  belfry,  intended  to  com- 
plete it,  and  to  surpass  all  that  had  gone  before.  Most 
people  imagined  that  the  design  would  involve  a  casting 
like  the  bells.  But  those  who  thought  they  had  some 
further  insight  would  shake  their  heads,  with  hints  that 


132  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

not  for  nothing  did  the  mechanician  keep  so  secret. 
Meantime,  his   seclusion  failed  not  to  invest  his  work 
-  with  more  or  less  of  that  sort  of  mystery  pertaining  to 
the  forbidden. 

Erelong  he  had  a  heavy  object  hoisted  to  the  belfry, 
wrapped  in  a  dark  sack  or  cloak,  —  a  procedure  some- 
times  had  in  the  case  of  an  elaborate  piece  of  sculpture 
or  statue,  which,  being  intended  to  grace  the  front  of  a 
new  edifice,  the  architect  does  not  desire  exposed  to 
critical  eyes,  till  set  up,  finished,  in  its  appointed  place. 
Such  was  the  impression  now.  But,  as  the  object  rose, 
a  statuary  present  observed,  or  thought  he  did,  that  it 
was  not  entirely  rigid,  but  was,  in  a  manner,  pliant.  At 
last,  when  the  hidden  thing  had  attained  its  final  height, 
and,  obscurely  seen  from  below,  seemed  almost  of  itself  to 
step  into  the  belfry  as  if  with  little  assistance  from  the 
crane,  a  shrewd  old  blacksmith  present  ventured  the  sus- 
picion that  it  was  but  a  living  man.  This  surmise  was 
thought  a  foolish  one,  while  the  general  interest  failed 
not  to  augment. 

Not  without  demur  from  Bannadonna,  the  chief  magis- 
trate of  the  town,  with  an  associate,  —  both  elderly  men, 
—  followed  what  seemed  the  image  up  the  tower.  But, 
arrived  at  the  belfry,  they  had  little  recompense.  Plausi- 
bly intrenching  himself  behind  the  conceded  mysteries 
of  his  art,  the  mechanician  withheld  present  expla- 
nation. The  magistrates  glanced  toward  the  cloaked 
object,  which,  to  their  surprise,  seemed  now  to  have 
changed  its  attitude,  or  else  had  before  been  more  per- 
plexingly  concealed  by  the  violent  muffling  action  of  the 
wind  without.  It  seemed  now  seated  upon  some  sort  of 


THE    BELL-TOWER.  133 

frame  or  chair  contained  within  the  domino.  They  ob- 
served that  nigh  the  top,  in  a  sort  of  square,  the  web  of 
the  cloth,  either  from  accident  or  from  design,  had  its 
warp  partly  withdrawn,  and  the  cross-threads  plucked 
out  here  and  there,  so  as  to  form  a  sort  of  woven  grat- 
ing. Whether  it  were  the  low  wind  or  no,  stealing 
through  the  stone  lattice-work,  or  only  their  own  per- 
turbed imaginations,  is  uncertain,  but  they  thought  they 
discerned  a  slight  sort  of  fitful,  spring-like  motion,  in 
the  domino.  Nothing,  however  incidental  or  insignifi- 
cant, escaped  their  uneasy  eyes.  Among  other  things, 
they  pried  out,  in  a  corner,  an  earthen  cup,  partly  cor- 
roded and  partly  incrusted,  and  one  whispered  to  the 
other  that  this  cup  was  just  such  a  one  as  might,  in 
mockery,  be  offered  to  the  lips  of  some  brazen  statue,  or, 
perhaps,  still  worse. 

But,  being  questioned,  the  mechanician  said  that  the 
cup  was  simply  used  in  his  founder's  business,  and 
described  the  purpose  ;  in  short,  a  cup  to  test  the  condi- 
tion of  metals  in  fusion.  He  added  that  it  had  got  into 
the  belfry  by  the  merest  chance. 

Again  and  again  they  gazed  at  the  domino,  as  at  some 
suspicious  incognito  at  a  Venetian  mask.  All  sorts  of 
vague  apprehensions  stirred  them.  They  even  dreaded 
lest,  when  they  should  descend,  the  mechanician,  though 
without  a  flesh-and-blood  companion,  for  all  that,  would 
not  be  left  alone. 

Affecting  some  merriment  at  their  disquietude,  he 
begged  to  relieve  them,  by  extending  a  coarse  sheet  of 
workman's  canvas  between  them  and  the  object. 

Meantime  he  sought  to  interest  them  in  his  other 


134  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

work ;  nor,  now  that  the  domino  was  out  of  sight,  did 
they  long  remain  insensible  to  the  artistic  wonders  lying 
round  them ;  wonders  hitherto  beheld  but  in  their  unfin- 
ished state;  because,  since  hoisting  the  bells,  none  but 
the  caster  had  entered  within  the  belfry.  It  was  one 
trait  of  his  that,  even  in  details,  he  would  not  let  another 
do  what  he  could,  without  too  great  loss  of  time,  accom- 
plish for  himself.  So,  for  several  preceding  weeks,  what- 
ever hours  were  unemployed  in  his  secret  design,  had 
been  devoted  to  elaborating  the  figures  on  the  bells. 

The  clock-bell,  in  particular,  now  drew  attention. 
Under  a  patient  chisel,  the  latent  beauty  of  its  enrich- 
ments, before  obscured  by  the  cloudings  incident  to  cast- 
ing, that  beauty  in  its  shiest  grace,  was  now  revealed. 
Round  and  round  the  bell,  twelve  figures  of  gay  girls, 
garlanded,  hand-in-hand,  danced  in  a  choral  ring,  —  the 
embodied  hours. 

" Bannadonna,"  said  the  chief,  "this  bell  excels  all 
else.  No  added  touch  could  here  improve.  Hark ! " 
hearing  a  sound,  "  was  that  the  wind  ? " 

"The  wind,  Eccellenza,"  was  the  light  response. 
"  But  the  figures,  they  are  not  yet  without  their  faults. 
They  need  some  touches  yet.  When  those  are  given, 
and  the  —  block  yonder,"  pointing  toward  the  canvas 
screen,  "when  Haman  there,  as  I  merrily  call  him, — 
him  ?  it,  I  mean,  —  when  Haman  is  fixed  on  this,  his 
lofty  tree,  then,  gentlemen,  shall  I  be  most  happy  to 
receive  you  here  again." 

The  equivocal  reference  to  the  object  caused  some 
return  of  restlessness.  However,  on  their  part,  the  vis- 
itors forbore  further  allusion  to  it,  unwilling,  perhaps,  to 


THE    BELL-TOWER.  135 

let  the  foundling  see  how  easily  it  lay  within  his  plebeian 
art  to  stir  the  placid  dignity  of  nobles. 

"  Well,  Bannadonna,"  said  the  chief,  "  how  long  ere 
you  are  ready  to  set  the  clock  going,  so  that  the  hour 
shall  be  sounded  ?  Our  interest  in  you,  not  less  than  in 
the  work  itself,  makes  us  anxious  to  be  assured  of  your 
success.  The  people,  too,  —  why,  they  are  shouting  now. 
Say  the  exact  hour  when  you  will  be  ready." 

"  To-morrow,  Eccellenza,  if  you  listen  for  it,  —  or 
should  you  not,  all  the  same,  —  strange  music  will  be 
heard.  The  stroke  of  one  shall  be  the  first  from  yonder 
bell,"  pointing  to  the  bell  adorned  with  girls  and  gar- 
lands; "that  stroke  shall  fall  there,  where  the  hand  of 
Una  clasps  Dua's.  The  stroke  of  one  shall  sever  that 
loved  clasp.  To-morrow,  then,  at  one  o'clock,  as  struck 
here,  precisely  here,"  advancing  and  placing  his  finger 
upon  the  clasp,  "  the  poor  mechanic  will  be  most  happy 
once  more  to  give  you  liege  audience,  in  this  his  littered 
shop.  Farewell  till  then,  illustrious  magnificoes,  and 
hark  ye  for  your  vassal's  stroke." 

His  still,  Vulcanic  face  hiding  its  burning  brightness 
like  a  forge,  he  moved  with  ostentatious  deference  to- 
ward the  scuttle,  as  if  so  far  to  escort  their  exit.  But 
the  junior  magistrate,  a  kind-hearted  man,  troubled  at 
what  seemed  to  him  a  certain  sardonical  disdain,  lurking 
beneath  the  foundling's  humble  mien,  and  in  Christian 
sympathy  more  distressed  at  it  on  his  account  than  on 
his  own,  dimly  surmising  what  might  be  the  final  fate  of 
such  a  cynic  solitaire,  nor  perhaps  uninfluenced  by  the 
general  strangeness  of  surrounding  things, — this  good 
magistrate  had  glanced  sadly,  sidewise  from  the  speaker, 


136  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

and  thereupon  his  foreboding  eye  had  started  at  the  ex- 
pression of  the  unchanging  face  of  the  hour  Una. 

"  How  is  this,  Bannadonna  ?  "  he  lowly  asked,  "  Una 
looks  unlike  her  sisters." 

"In  Christ's  name,  Bannadonna,"  impulsively  broke 
in  the  chief,  his  attention  for  the  first  time  attracted  to 
the  figure  by  his  associate's  remark,  "  Una's  face  looks 
just  like  that  of  Deborah,  the  prophetess,  as  painted  by 
the  Florentine,  Del  Fonca." 

"Surely,  Bannadonna,"  lowly  resumed  the  milder 
magistrate,  "  you  meant  the  twelve  should  wear  the  same 
jocundly  abandoned  air.  But  see,  the  smile  of  Una 
seems  but  a  fatal  one.  'Tis  different." 

While  his  mild  associate  was  speaking,  the  chief 
glanced,  inquiringly,  from  him  to  the  caster,  as  if  anxious 
to  mark  how  the  discrepancy  would  be  accounted  for. 
As  the  chief  stood,  his  advanced  foot  was  on  the  scuttle's 
curb.  Bannadonna  spoke :  — 

"Excellenza,  now  that,  following  your  keener  eye,  I 
glance  upon  the  face  of  Una,  I  do,  indeed,  perceive  some 
little  variance.  But  look  all  round  the  bell,  and  you  will 
find  no  two  faces  entirely  correspond.  Because  there  is 
a  law  in  art  —  But  the  cold  wind  is  rising  more  ;  these 
lattices  are  but  a  poor  defence.  Suffer  me,  magnificoes, 
to  conduct  you  at  least  partly  on  your  way.  Those  in 
whose  well-being  there  is  a  public  stake  should  be  heed- 
fully  attended." 

"  Touching  the  look  of  Una,  you  were  saying,  Banna- 
donna, that  there  was  a  certain  law  in  art,"  observed  the 
chief,  as  the  three  now  descended  the  stone  shaft,  "  pray, 
tell  me,  then — " 


THE    BELL-TOWER.  137 

"Pardon  —  another  time,  Eccellenza;  the  tower  is 
damp." 

"  Nay,  I  must  rest,  and  hear  it  now.  Here,  — here  is 
a  wide  landing,  and  through  this  leeward  slit  no  wind, 
but  ample  light.  Tell  us  of  your  law,  and  at  large." 

"  Since,  Eccellenza,  you  insist,  know  that  there  is  a 
law  in  art,  which  bars  the  possibility  of  duplicates. 
Some  years  ago,  you  may  remember,  I  graved  a  small 
seal  for  your  republic,  bearing,  for  its  chief  device,  the 
head  of  your  own  ancestor,  its  illustrious  founder.  It 
becoming  necessary,  for  the  customs'  use,  to  have  innu- 
merable impressions  for  bales  and  boxes,  I  graved  an 
entire  plate,  containing  one  hundred  of  the  seals.  Now, 
though,  indeed,  my  object  was  to  have  those  hundred 
heads  identical,  and  though,  I  dare  say,  people  think 
them  so,  yet,  upon  closely  scanning  an  uncut  impression 
from  the  plate,  no  two  of  those  five-score  faces,  side  by 
side,  will  be  found  alike.  Gravity  is  the  air  of  all ;  but 
diversified  in  all.  In  some,  benevolent ;  in  some,  ambig- 
uous ;  in  two  or  three,  to  a  close  scrutiny,  all  but  incip- 
iently  malign,  the  variation  of  less  than  a  hair's  breadth 
in  the  linear  shadings  round  the  mouth  sufficing  to  all 
this.  Now,  Eccellenza,  transmute  that  general  gravity 
into  joyousness,  and  subject  it  to  twelve  of  those  varia- 
tions I  have  described,  and  tell  me,  will  you  not  have  my 
hours  here,  and  Una  one  of  them  ?  But  I  like  —  " 

"  Hark !  is  that  —  a  footfall  above  ?  " 

"  Mortar,  Eccellenza ;  sometimes  it  drops  to  the  bel- 
fry-floor from  the  arch  where  the  stonework  was  left  un- 
dressed. I  must  have  it  seen  to.  As  I  was  about  to 
say :  for  one,  I  like  this  law  forbidding  duplicates.  It 


138  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

evokes  fine  personalities.  Yes,  Eccellenza,  that  strange 
and  —  to  you — uncertain  smile,  and  those  fore-looking 
eyes  of  Una,  suit  Bannadonna  very  well." 

"  Hark  !  —  sure,  we  left  no  soul  above  ?  " 

"  No  soul,  Eccellenza ;  rest  assured,  no  soul.  Again 
the  mortar." 

"  It  fell  not  while  we  were  there." 

"  Ah,  in  your  presence,  it  better  knew  its  place,  Eccel- 
lenza," blandly  bowed  Bannadonna. 

"  But  Una,"  said  the  milder  magistrate,  "  she  seemed 
intently  gazing  on  you;  one  would  have  almost  sworn 
that  she  picked  you  out  from  among  us  three." 

"  If  she  did,  possibly  it  might  have  been  her  finer  ap- 
prehension, Eccellenza." 

"  How,  Bannadonna  ?     I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  No  consequence,  no  consequence,  Eccellenza :  but 
the  shifted  wind  is  blowing  through  the  slit.  Suffer  me 
to  escort  you  on  ;  and  then,  pardon,  but  the  toiler  must 
to  Ms  tools." 

"  It  may  be  foolish,  Signor,"  said  the  milder  magis- 
trate, as,  from  the  third  landing,  the  two  now  went  down 
unescorted,  "  but,  somehow,  our  great  mechanician  moves 
me  strangely.  Why,  just  now,  when  he  so  superciliously 
replied,  his  walk  seemed  Sisera's,  God's  vain  foe,  in  Del 
Fonca's  painting.  And  that  young,  sculptured  Deborah, 
too.  Ay,  and  that  —  " 

"  Tush,  tush,  Signor !  "  returned  the  chief.  "  A  pass- 
ing whim.  Deborah  ?  —  Where  's  Jael,  pray  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  said  the  other,  as  they  now  stepped  upon  the 
sod,  —  "  ah,  Signor,  I  see  you  leave  your  fears  behind  you 
with  the  chill  and  gloom ;  but  mine,  even  in  this  sunny 
air,  remain.  Hark ! " 


THE    BELL-TOWER.  139 

It  was  a  sound  from  just  within  the  tower  door,  whence 
they  had  emerged.  Turning,  they  saw  it  closed. 

"  He  has  slipped  down  and  barred  us  out,"  smiled  the 
chief;  "  but  it  is  his  custom." 

Proclamation  was  now  made  that  the  next  day,  at 
one  hour  after  meridian,  the  clock  would  strike,  and  — 
thanks  to  the  mechanician's  powerful  art  —  with  unusual 
accompaniments.  But  what  those  should  be,  none  as 
yet  could  say.  The  announcement  was  received  with 
cheers. 

By  the  looser  sort,  who  encamped  about  the  tower  all 
night,  lights  were  seen  gleaming  through  the  topmost 
blind-work,  only  disappearing  with  the  morning  sun. 
Strange  sounds,  too,  were  heard,  or  were  thought  to  be, 
by  those  whom  anxious  watching  might  not  have  left 
mentally  undisturbed,  —  sounds,  not  only  of  some  ringing 
implement,  but  also  —  so  they  said  —  half-suppressed 
screams  and  plainings,  such  as  might  have  issued  from 
some  ghostly  engine  overplied. 

Slowly  the  day  drew  on ;  part  of  the  concourse  chasing 
the  weary  time  with  songs  and  games,  till,  at  last,  the 
great  blurred  sun  rolled,  like  a  football,  against  the 
plain. 

At  noon,  the  nobility  and  principal  citizens  came  from 
the  town  in  cavalcade,  a  guard  of  soldiers,  also,  with  mu- 
sic, the  more  to  honor  the  occasion. 

Only  one  hour  more.  Impatience  grew.  Watches 
were  held  in  hands  of  feverish  men,  who  stood,  now  scru- 
tinizing their  small  dial-plates,  and  then,  with  neck 
thrown  back,  gazing  toward  the  belfry,  as  if  the  eye 
might  foretell  that  which  could  only  be  made  sensible 


140  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

to  the  ear ;  for,  as  yet,  there  was  no  dial  to  the  tower- 
clock. 

The  hour-hands  of  a  thousand  watches  now  verged 
within  a  hair's  breadth  of  the  figure  1.  A  silence,  as  of 
the  expectation  of  some  Shiloh,  pervaded  the  swarming 
plain.  Suddenly  a  dull,  mangled  sound,  —  naught 
ringing  in  it ;  scarcely  audible,  indeed,  to  the  outer 
circles  of  the  people, — that  dull  sound  dropped  heav- 
ily from  the  belfry.  At  the  same  moment,  each  man 
stared  at  his  neighbor  blankly.  All  watches  were  up- 
held. All  hour-hands  were  at  —  had  passed  —  the 
figure  1.  No  bell-stroke  from  the  tower.  The  multi- 
tude became  tumultuous. 

Waiting  a  few  moments,  the  chief  magistrate,  com- 
manding silence,  hailed  the  belfry,  to  know  what  thing 
unforeseen  had  happened  there. 

No  response. 

He  hailed  again  and  yet  again. 

All  continued  hushed. 

By  his  order,  the  soldiers  burst  in  the  tower-door-, 
when,  stationing  guards  to  defend  it  from  the  now  surg- 
ing mob,  the  chief,  accompanied  by  his  former  associate, 
climbed  the  winding  stairs.  Half-way  up,  they  stopped 
to  listen.  No  sound.  Mounting  faster,  they  reached  the 
belfry,  but,  at  the  threshold,  started  at  the  spectacle  dis- 
closed. A  spaniel,  which,  unbeknown  to  them,  had  fol- 
lowed them  thus  far,  stood  shivering  as  before  some 
unknown  monster  in  a  brake  ;  or,  rather,  as  if  it  snuffed 
footsteps  leading  to  some  other  world. 

Bannadonna  lay,  prostrate  and  bleeding,  at  the  base 
of  the  bell  which  was  adorned  with  girls  and  garlands. 


THE    BELL-TOWER.  141 

He  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  hour  Una ;  his  head  coinciding, 
in  a  vertical  line,  with  her  left  hand,  clasped  by  the  hour 
Dua.  "With  downcast  face  impending  over  him,  like  Jael 
over  nailed  Sisera  in  the  tent,  was  the  domino  ;  now  no 
more  becloaked. 

It  had  limbs,  and  seemed  clad  in  a  scaly  mail,  lustrous 
as  a  dragon-beetle's.  It  was  manacled,  and  its  clubbed 
arms  were  uplifted,  as  if,  with  its  manacles,  once  more  to 
smite  its  already  smitten  victim.  One  advanced  foot  of 
it  was  inserted  beneath  the  dead  body,  as  if  in  the  act 
of  spurning  it. 

Uncertainty  falls  on  what  now  followed. 

It  were  but  natural  to  suppose  that  the  magistrates 
would,  at  first,  shrink  from  immediate  personal  contact 
with  what  they  saw.  At  the  least,  for  a  time,  they  would 
stand  in  involuntary  doubt ;  it  may  be,  in  more  or  less 
of  horrified  alarm.  Certain  it  is,  that  an  arquebuse  was 
called  for  from  below.  And  some  add  that  its  report, 
followed  by  a  fierce  whiz,  as  of  the  sudden  snapping  of  a 
main-spring,  with  a  steely  din,  as  if  a  stack  of  sword- 
blades  should  be  dashed  upon  a  pavement,  —  these  blend- 
ed sounds  came  ringing  to  the  plain,  attracting  every 
eye  far  upward  to  the  belfry,  whence,  through  the  lattice- 
work, thin  wreaths  of  smoke  were  curling. 

Some  averred  that  it  was  the  spaniel,  gone  mad  by 
fear,  which  was  shot.  This,  others  denied.  True,  it 
was,  the  spaniel  never  more  was  seen ;  and,  probably, 
for  some  unknown  reason,  it  shared  the  burial  now  to  be 
related  of  the  domino.  For,  whatever  the  preceding  cir- 
cumstances may  have  been,  the  first  instinctive  panic 
over,  or  else  all  ground  of  reasonable  fear  removed,  the 


142  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

two  magistrates,  by  themselves,  quickly  re-hooded  the 
figure  in  the  dropped  cloak  wherein  it  had  been  hoisted. 
The  same  night,  it  was  secretly  lowered  to  the  ground, 
smuggled  to  the  beach,  pulled  far  out  to  sea,  and  sunk. 
Nor  to  any  after  urgency,  even  in  free  convivial  hours, 
would  the  twain  ever  disclose  the  full  secrets  of  the  bel- 
fry. 

Prom  the  mystery  unavoidably  investing  it,  the  popu- 
lar solution  of  the  foundling's  fate  involved  more  or  less 
of  supernatural  agency.  But  some  few  less  unscientific 
minds  pretended  to  find  little  difficulty  in  otherwise 
accounting  for  it.  In  the  chain  of  circumstantial  infer- 
ences drawn,  there  may  or  may  not  have  been  some 
absent  or  defective  links.  But,  as  the  explanation  in 
question  is  the  only  one  which  tradition  has  explicitly 
preserved,  in  dearth  of  better,  it  will  here  be  given. 
But,  in  the  first  place,  it  is  requisite  to  present  the  sup- 
position entertained  as  to  the  entire  motive  and  mode, 
with  their  origin,  of  the  secret  design  of  Bannadonna; 
the  minds  above  mentioned  assuming  to  penetrate  as  well 
into  his  soul  as  into  the  event.  The  disclosure  will  indi- 
rectly involve  reference  to  peculiar  matters,  none  of  the 
clearest,  beyond  the  immediate  subject. 

At  that  period,  no  large  bell  was  made  to  sound  other- 
wise than  as  at  present,  —  by  agitation  of  a  tongue  with- 
in, by  means  of  ropes,  or  percussion  from  without,  either 
from  cumbrous  machinery,  or  stalwart  watchmen,  armed 
with  heavy  hammers,  stationed  in  the  belfry,  or  in  sentry- 
boxes  on  the  open  roof,  according  as  the  bell  was  shel- 
tered or  exposed. 

It  was  from  observing  these  exposed  bells,  with  their 


THE    BELL-TOWER.  143 

watchmen,  that  the  foundling,  as  was  opined,  derived  the 
first  suggestion  of  his  scheme.  Perched  on  a  great  mast 
or  spire,  the  human  figure  viewed  from  below  undergoes 
such  a  reduction  in  its  apparent  size  as  to  obliterate  its 
intelligent  features.  It  evinces  no  personality.  Instead 
of  bespeaking  volition,  its  gestures  rather  resemble  the 
automatic  ones  of  the  arms  of  a  telegraph. 

Musing,  therefore,  upon  the  purely  Punchinello  aspect 
of  the  human  figure  thus  beheld,  it  had  indirectly  oc- 
curred to  Bannadonna  to  devise  some  metallic  agent, 
which  should  strike  the  hour  with  its  mechanic  hand, 
with  even  greater  precision  than  the  vital  one.  And, 
moreover,  as  the  vital  watchman  on  the  roof,  sallying 
from  his  retreat  at  the  given  periods,  walked  to  the  bell 
with  uplifted  mace  to  smite  it,  Bannadonna  had  resolved 
that  his  invention  should  likewise  possess  the  power  of 
locomotion,  and,  along  with  that,  the  appearance,  at  least, 
of  intelligence  and  will. 

If  the  conjectures  of  those  who  claimed  acquaintance 
with  the  intent  of  Bannadonna  be  thus  far  correct,  no 
unenterprising  spirit  could  have  been  his.  But  they 
stopped  not  here ;  intimating  that  though,  indeed,  his 
design  had,  in  the  first  place,  been  prompted  by  the  sight 
of  the  watchman,  and  confined  to  the  devising  of  a  sub- 
tle substitute  for  him,  yet,  as  is  not  seldom  the  case  with 
projectors,  by  insensible  gradations,  proceeding  from 
comparatively  pygmy  aims  to  Titanic  ones,  the  original 
scheme  had,  in  its  anticipated  eventualities,  at  last  at- 
tained to  an  unheard-of  degree  of  daring.  He  still  bent 
his  efforts  upon  the  locomotive  figure  for  the  belfry,  but 
only  as  a  partial  type  of  an  ulterior  creature,  a  sort  of 


144  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

elephantine  Helot,  adapted  to  further,  in  a  degree  scarcely 
to  be  imagined,  the  universal  conveniences  and  glories  of 
humanity ;  supplying  nothing  less  than  a  supplement  to 
the  Six  Days'  Work;  stocking  the  earth  with  a  new 
serf,  more  useful  than  the  ox,  swifter  than  the  dolphin, 
stronger  than  the  lion,  more  cunning  than  the  ape,  for  in- 
dustry an  ant,  more  fiery  than  serpents,  and  yet,  in 
patience,  another  ass.  All  excellences  of  all  God-made 
creatures,  which  served  man,  were  here  to  receive  ad- 
vancement, and  then  to  be  combined  in  one.  Talus  was  to 
have  been  the  all-accomplished  Helot's  name.  Talus,  iron 
slave  to  Bannadonna,  and,  through  him,  to  man. 

Here  it  might  well  be  thought  that,  were  these  last 
conjectures  as  to  the  foundling's  secrets  not  erroneous, 
then  must  he  have  been  hopelessly  infected  with  the  cra- 
ziest chimeras  of  his  age,  far  outgoing  Albert  Magus  and 
Cornelius  Agrippa.  But  the  contrary  was  averred.  How- 
ever marvellous  his  design,  however  apparently  transcend- 
ing not  alone  the  bounds  of  human  invention,  but  those 
of  divine  creation,  yet  the  proposed  means  to  be  employed 
were  alleged  to  have  been  confined  within  the  sober 
forms  of  sober  reason.  It  was  aifirmed  that,  to  a  degree 
of  more  than  sceptic  scorn,  Bannadonna  had  been  with- 
out sympathy  for  any  of  the  vainglorious  irrationalities 
of  his  time.  For  example,  he  had  not  concluded,  with  the 
visionaries  among  the  metaphysicians,  that  between  the 
finer  mechanic  forces  and  the  ruder  animal  vitality  some 
germ  of  correspondence  might  prove  discoverable.  As 
little  did  his  scheme  partake  of  the  enthusiasm  of  some 
natural  philosophers,  who  hoped,  by  physiological  and 
chemical  inductions,  to  arrive  at  a  knowledge  of  the 


THE    BELL-TOWER.  145 

source  of  life,  and  so  qualify  themselves  to  manufacture 
and  improve  upon  it.  Much  less  had  he  aught  in  com- 
mon with  the  tribe  of  alchemists,  who  sought,  by  a  spe- 
cies of  incantations,  to  evoke  some  surprising  vitality 
from  the  laboratory.  Neither  had  he  imagined,  with  cer- 
tain sanguine  theosophists,  that,  by  faithful  adoration  of 
the  Highest,  unheard-of  powers  would  be  vouchsafed  to 
man.  A  practical  materialist,  what  Bannadonna  had 
aimed  at  was  to  have  been  reached,  not  by  logic,  not  by 
crucible,  not  by  conjuration,  not  by  altars ;  but  by  plain 
vice-bench  and  hammer.  In  short,  to  solve  Nature,  to 
steal  into  her,  to  intrigue  beyond  her,  to  procure  some 
one  else  to  bind  her  to  his  hand,  —  these,  one  and  all, 
had  not  been  his  objects  ;  but,  asking  no  favors  from  any 
element  or  any  being,  of  himself  to  rival  her,  outstrip 
her,  and  rule  her.  He  stooped  to  conquer.  With  him, 
common-sense  was  theurgy ;  machinery,  miracle ;  Pro- 
metheus, the  heroic  name  for  machinist ;  man,  the  true 
God. 

Nevertheless,  in  his  initial  step,  so  far  as  the  experi- 
mental automaton  for  the  belfry  was  concerned,  he  al- 
lowed fancy  some  little  play ;  or,  perhaps,  what  seemed 
his  fancifulness  was  but  his  utilitarian  ambition  collater- 
ally extended.  In  figure,  the  creature  for  the  belfry 
should  not  be  likened  after  the  human  pattern,  nor  any 
animal  one,  nor  after  the  ideals,  however  wild,  of  ancient 
fable,  but  equally  in  aspect  as  in  organism  be  an  original 
production ;  the  more  terrible  to  behold,  the  better. 

Such,  then,  were  the  suppositions  as  to  the  present 
scheme,  and  the  reserved  intent.  How,  at  the  very 
threshold,  so  unlooked-for  a  catastrophe  overturned  all, 


146  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

or  rather,  what  was  the  conjecture  here,  is  now  to  be  set 
forth. 

It  was  thought  that  on  the  day  preceding  the  fatality, 
his  visitors  having  left  him,  Bannadonna  had  unpacked 
the  belfry  image,  adjusted  it,  and  placed  it  in  the  retreat 
provided,  —  a  sort  of  sentry-box  in  one  corner  of  the  bel- 
fry ;  in  short,  throughout  the  night,  and  for  some  part 
of  the  ensuing  morning,  he  had  been  engaged  in  arrang- 
ing everything  connected  with  the  domino :  the  issuing 
from  the  sentry-box  each  sixty  minutes ;  sliding  along  a 
grooved  way,  like  a  railway  ;  advancing  to  the  clock-bell, 
with  uplifted  manacles ;  striking  it  at  one  of  the  twelve 
junctions  of  the  four-and-twenty  hands ;  then  wheeling, 
circling  the  bell,  and  retiring  to  its  post,  there  to  bide 
for  another  sixty  minutes,  when  the  same  process  was  to 
be  repeated ;  the  bell,  by  a  cunning  mechanism,  mean- 
time turning  on  its  vertical  axis,  so  as  to  present,  to  the 
descending  mace,  the  clasped  hands  of  the  next  two  fig- 
ures, when  it  would  strike  two,  three,  and  so  on,  to  the 
end.  The  musical  metal  in  this  time-bell  was  so  man- 
aged in  the  fusion,  by  some  art,  perishing  with  its  origi- 
nator, that  each  of  the  clasps  of  the  four-and-twenty 
hands  should  give  forth  its  own  peculiar  resonance  when 
parted. 

But  on  the  magic  metal,  the  magic  and  metallic  stran- 
ger never  struck  but  that  one  stroke,  drove  but  that  one 
nail,  severed  but  that  one  clasp,  by  which  Bannadouna 
clung  to  his  ambitious  life.  For,  after  winding  up  the 
creature  in  the  sentry-box,  so  that,  for  the  present,  skip- 
ping the  intervening  hours,  it  should  not  emerge  till  the 
hour  of  one,  but  should  then  infallibly  emerge,  and,  after 


THE    BELL-TOWER.  147 

deftly  oiling  the  grooves  whereon  it  was  to  slide,  it  was 
surmised  that  the  mechanician  must  then  have  hurried  to 
the  bell,  to  give  his  final  touches  to  its  sculpture.  True 
artist,  he  here  became  absorbed,  —  an  absorption  still  fur- 
ther intensified,  it  may  be,  by  his  striving  to  abate  that 
strange  look  of  Una;  which,  though  before  others  he 
had  treated  it  with  such  unconcern,  might  not,  in  secret, 
have  been  without  its  thorn. 

And  so,  for  the  interval,  he  was  oblivious  of  his  crea- 
ture ;  which,  not  oblivious  of  him,  and  true  to  its  crea- 
tion, and  true  to  its  heedful  winding  up,  left  its  post 
precisely  at  the  given  moment ;  along  its  well-oiled  route, 
slid  noiselessly  toward  its  mark ;  and,  aiming  at  the  hand 
of  Una,  to  ring  one  clangorous  note,  dully  smote  the  in- 
tervening brain  of  Bannadonna,  turned  backward  to  it ; 
the  manacled  arms  then  instantly  upspringing  to  their 
hovering  poise.  The  falling  body  clogged  the  thing's  re- 
turn ;  so  there  it  stood,  still  impending  over  Bannadonna, 
as  if  whispering  some  post-mortem  terror.  The  chisel 
lay  dropped  from  the  hand,  but  beside  the  hand ;  the  oil- 
flask  spilled  across  the  iron  track. 

In  his  unhappy  end,  not  unmindful  of  the  rare  genius 
of  the  mechanician,  the  republic  decreed  him  a  stately 
funeral.  It  was  resolved  that  the  great  bell  —  the 
one  whose  casting  had  been  jeopardized  through  the 
timidity  of  the  ill-starred  workman  —  should  be  rung 
upon  the  entrance  of  the  bier  into  the  cathedral.  The 
most  robust  man  of  the  country  round  was  assigned  the 
office  of  bell-ringer. 

But  as  the  pall-bearers  entered  the  cathedral  porch, 
naught  but  a  broken  and  disastrous  sound,  like  that  of 


148  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

some  lone  Alpine  land-slide,  fell  from  the  tower  upon 
their  ears.  And  then,  all  was  hushed. 

Glancing  backward,  they  saw  the  groined  belfry  crushed 
sidewise  in.  It  afterward  appeared  that  the  powerful 
peasant  who  had  the  bell-rope  in  charge,  wishing  to  test 
at  once  the  full  glory  of  the  bell,  had  swayed  down  upon 
the  rope  with  one  concentrate  jerk.  The  mass  of  quak- 
ing metal,  too  ponderous  for  its  frame,  and  strangely  fee- 
ble somewhere  at  its  top,  loosed  from  its  fastening,  tore 
sidewise  down,  and  tumbling  in  one  sheer  fall,  three  hun- 
dred feet  to  the  soft  sward  below,  buried  itself  inverted 
and  half  out  of  sight. 

Upon  its  disinterment,  the  main  fracture  was  found  to 
have  started  from  a  small  spot  in  the  ear ;  which,  being 
scraped,  revealed  a  defect,  deceptively  minute,  in  the 
casting;  which  defect  must  subsequently  have  been 
pasted  over  with  some  unknown  compound. 

The  re-molten  metal  soon  reassumed  its  place  in  the 
tower's  repaired  superstructure.  For  one  year  the  me- 
tallic choir  of  birds  sang  musically  in  its  belfry -bough- 
work  of  sculptured  blinds  and  traceries.  But  on  the 
first  anniversary  of  the  tower's  completion,  —  at  early 
dawn,  before  the  concourse  had  surrounded  it,  —  an 
earthquake  came ;  one  loud  crash  was  heard.  The  stone- 
pine,  with  all  its  bower  of  songsters,  lay  overthrown 
upon  the  plain. 

So  the  blind  slave  obeyed  its  blinder  lord ;  but,  in 
obedience,  slew  him.  So  the  creator  was  killed  by  the 
creature.  So  the  bell  was  too  heavy  for  the  tower.  So 
the  bell's  main  weakness  was  where  man's  blood  had 
flawed  it.  And  so  pride  went  before  the  fall. 


THE   KATHAYAN   SLAVE. 

BY  EMILY  C.  JUDSON. 

the  commencement  of  the  English  and  Bur- 
mese war  of  1824,  all  the  Christians  (called 
"hat-wearers,"  in  contradistinction  from  the 
turbaned  heads  of  the  Orientals)  residing  at  Ava  were 
thrown  unceremoniously  into  the  death-prison.  Among 
them  were  both  Protestant  and  Roman  Catholic  mission- 
aries ;  some  few  reputable  European  traders  ;  and  crimi- 
nals shadowed  from  the  laws  of  Christendom  "  under  the 
sole  of  the  golden  foot."  These,  Americans,  English, 
Spanish,  Portuguese,  Greek,  and  Armenian,  were  all  hud- 
dled together  in  one  prison,  with  villains  of  every  grade, 
—  the  thief,  the  assassin,  the  bandit,  or  all  three  in  one ; 
constituting,  in  connection  with  countless  other  crimes, 
a  blacker  character  than  the  inhabitant  of  a  civilized  land 
can  picture.  Sometimes  stript  of  their  clothing,  some- 
times nearly  starved,  loaded  with  heavy  irons,  thrust  into 
a  hot,  filthy,  noisome  apartment,  with  criminals  for 
companions  and  criminals  for  guards,  compelled  to  see 
the  daily  torture,  to  hear  the  shriek  of  anguish  from 
writhing  victims,  with  death,  death  in  some  terribly  de- 


150  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

testable  form,  always  before  them,  a  severer  state  of  suf- 
fering can  scarcely  be  imagined. 

The  Burmese  had  never  been  known  to  spare  the  lives 
of  their  war-captives  ;  and  though  the  little  band  of  for- 
eigners could  scarcely  be  called  prisoners  of  war,  yet  this 
well-known  custom,  together  with  their  having  been 
thrust  into  the  death-prison,  from  which  there  was  no  es- 
cape, except  by  a  pardon  from  the  king,  cut  off  nearly 
every  reasonable  hope  of  rescue.  But  (quite  a  new  thing 
in  the  annals  of  Burmese  history),  although  some  died 
from  the  intensity  of  their  sufferings,  no  foreigner  was 
wantonly  put  to  death.  Of  those  who  were  claimed  by 
the  English  at  the  close  of  the  war,  some  one  or  two  are 
yet  living,  with  anklets  and  bracelets  which  they  will 
carry  to  the  grave  with  them,  wrought  in  their  flesh  by 
the  heavy  iron.  It  may  well  be  imagined  that  these  men 
might  unfold  to  us  scenes  of  horror,  incidents  daily  oc- 
curring under  their  own  shuddering  gaze,  in  comparison 
with  which  the  hair-elevating  legends  of  Ann  Radcliff 
would  become  simple  fairy  tales. 

The  death-prison  at  Ava  was  at  that  time  a  single  large 
room,  built  of  rough  boards,  without  either  window  or 
door,  and  with  but  a  thinly  thatched  roof  to  protect  the 
wretched  inmates  from  the  blaze  of  a  tropical  sun.  It 
was  entered  by  slipping  aside  a  single  board,  which  con- 
stituted a  sort  of  sliding-door.  Around  the  prison,  inside 
the  yard,  were  ranged  the  huts  of  the  under-jailers,  or 
Children  of  the  Prison,  and  outside  of  the  yard,  close  at 
hand,  that  of  the  head-jailer.  These  jailers  must  neces- 
sarily be  condemned  criminals,  with  a  ring,  the  sign  of 
outlawry,  traced  in  the  skin  of  the  cheek,  and  the  name 


THE    KATHAYAN    SLAVE.  151 

of  their  crime  engraved  in  the  same  manner  upon  the 
breast.  The  head-jailer  was  a  tall,  bony  man,  with  sin- 
ews of  iron ;  wearing,  when  speaking,  a  malicious  smirk, 
and  given  at  times  to  a  most  revolting  kind  of  jocose- 
ness.  When  silent  and  quiet,  he  had  a  jaded,  careworn 
look  ;  but  it  was  at  the  torture  that  he  was  in  his  proper 
element.  Then  his  face  lighted  up,  —  became  glad,  furi- 
ous, demoniac.  His  small  black  eyes  glittered  like  those 
of  a  serpent ;  his  thin  lips  rolled  back,  displaying  his 
toothless  gums  in  front,  with  a  long,  protruding  tusk  on 
either  side,  stained  black  as  ebony ;  his  hollow,  ringed 
cheeks  seemed  to  contract  more  and  more,  and  his  breast 
heaved  with  convulsive  delight  beneath  the  fearful  word 
MAN-KILLEK.  The  prisoners  called  lam  father,  when  he 
was  present  to  enforce  this  expression  of  affectionate  fa- 
miliarity ;  but  among  themselves  he  was  irreverently 
christened  the  Tiger-cat. 

One  of  the  most  active  of  the  Children  of  the  Prison 
was  a  short,  broad-faced  man,  labelled  THIEF,  who,  as 
well  as  the  Tiger,  had  a  peculiar  talent  in  the  way  of  tor- 
turing ;  and  so  fond  was  he  of  the  use  of  the  whip,  that 
he  often  missed  his  count,  and  zealously  exceeded  the 
number  of  lashes  ordered  by  the  city  governor.  The 
wife  of  this  man  was  a  most  odious  creature,  filthy,  bold, 
impudent,  cruel,  and,  like  her  husband,  delighting  in  tor- 
ture. Her  face  was  not  only  deeply  pitted  with  small- 
pox, but  so  deformed  with  leprosy,  that  the  white  carti- 
lage of  the  nose  was  laid  entirely  bare ;  from  her  large 
mouth  shone  rows  of  irregular  teeth,  black  as  ink ;  her 
hair,  which  was  left  entirely  to  the  care  of  nature,  was 
matted  in  large  black  masses  about  her  head ;  and  her 


152  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

manner,  under  all  this  hideous  ugliness,  was  insolent  and 
vicious.  They  had  two  children,  —  little  vipers,  well 
loaded  with  venom ;  and  by  their  vexatious  mode  of  an- 
noyance, trying  the  tempers  of  the  prisoners  more  than 
was  in  the  power  of  the  mature  torturers. 

As  will  readily  be  perceived,  the  security  of  this  prison 
was  not  in  the  strength  of  the  structure,  but  in  the  heavy 
manacles,  and  the  living  wall.  The  lives  of  the  jailers 
depended  entirely  on  their  fidelity ;  and  fidelity  involved 
strict  obedience  to  orders,  however  ferocious.  As  for 
themselves,  they  could  not  escape ;  they  had  nowhere  to 
go ;  certain  death  awaited  them  everywhere,  for  they 
bore  on  cheek  and  breast  the  ineffaceable  proof  of  their 
outlawry.  Their  only  safety  was  at  their  post;  and 
there  was  no  safety  there  in  humanity,  even  if  it  were 
possible  for  such  degraded  creatures  to  have  a  spark  of 
humanity  left.  So  inclination  united  with  interest  to 
make  them  what  they  really  were,  —  demons. 

The  arrival  of  a  new  prisoner  was  an  incident  calcu- 
lated to  excite  but  little  interest  in  the  hat-wearers, 
provided  he  came  in  turban  and  waistcloth.  But  one 
morning  there  was  brought  in  a  young  man,  speaking  the 
Burmese  brokenly,  and  with  the  soft  accent  of  the  North, 
who  at  once  attracted  universal  attention.  He  was  tall 
and  erect,  with  a  mild,  handsome  face,  bearing  the  im- 
press of  inexpressible  suffering ;  a  complexion  slightly 
tinted  with  the  rich  brown  of  the  East ;  a  fine,  manly  car- 
riage, and  a  manner  which,  even  there,  was  both  graceful 
and  dignified. 

"  Who  is  he  ?  "  was  the  interpretation  of  the  inquiring 
glances  exchanged  among  those  who  had  no  liberty  to 


THE    KATHAYAN    SLAVE.  153 

speak ;  and  theii  eye  asked  of  eye,  "  What  can  he  have 
done  ?  —  he,  so  gentle,  so  mild,  so  manly,  that  even  these 
wretches,  who  scarcely  know  the  name  of  pity  and  re- 
spect, seem  to  feel  both  for  him  ?  "  There  was,  in  truth, 
something  in  the  countenance  of  the  new  prisoner  which, 
without  asking  for  sympathy,  involuntarily  enforced  it. 
It  was  not  amiability,  though  his  dark,  soft,  beautiful 
eye  was  full  of  a  noble  sweetness ;  it  was  not  resigna- 
tion ;  it  was  not  apathy  ;  it  was  hopelessness,  deep,  utter, 
immovable,  suffering  hopelessness.  Very  young,  and  ap- 
parently not  ambitious  or  revengeful,  what  crime  could 
this  interesting  stranger  have  committed  to  draw  down 
"  the  golden  foot "  with  such  crushing  weight  upon  his 
devoted  head  ?  He  seemed  utterly  friendless,  and  with- 
out even  the  means  of  obtaining  food;  for,  as  the  day 
advanced,  no  one  came  to  see  him ;  and  the  officer  who 
brought  him  had  left  no  directions.  He  did  not,  how- 
ever, suffer  from  this  neglect,  for  Madam  Thief  (most 
wonderful  to  relate !)  actually  shared  so  deeply  in  the 
universal  sympathy,  as  to  bring  him  a  small  quantity  of 
boiled  rice  and  water. 

Toward  evening,  the  Woon-bai,  a  governor,  or  rather 
Mayor  of  the  city,  entered  the  prison,  his  bold,  lion-like 
face  as  open  and  unconcerned  as  ever,  but  with  something 
of  unusual  bustling  in  his  manner. 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  he  cried  sternly,  —  "  where  is  he  ? 
this  son  of  Kathay  ?  this  dog,  villain,  traitor !  where  is 
he  ?  Aha !  only  one  pair  of  irons  ?  Put  on  five !  do 
you  hear  ?  five  !  " 

The  Woon-bai  remained  till  his  orders  were  executed, 
and  the  poor  Kathayan  was  loaded  with  five  pairs  of  fet- 
7* 


154  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

ters  ;  and  then  he  went  out,  frowning  on  one  and  smiling 
on  another;  while  the  Children  of  the  Prison  watched 
his  countenance  and  manner,  as  significant  of  what  was 
expected  of  them.  The  prisoners  looked  at  each  other, 
and  shook  their  heads  in  commiseration. 

The  next  day  the  feet  of  the  young  Kathayan,  in  obe- 
dience to  some  new  order,  were  placed  in  the  stocks, 
which  raised  them  about  eighteen  inches  from  the  ground ; 
and  the  five  pairs  of  fetters  were  all  disposed  on  the  outer 
side  of  the  plank,  so  that  their  entire  weight  fell  upon  the 
ankles.  The  position  was  so  painful  that  each  prisoner, 
some  from  memory,  some  from  sympathetic  apprehension, 
shared  in  the  pain  when  he  looked  at  the  sufferer. 

During  this  day,  one  of  the  missionaries,  who  had  been 
honored  with  an  invitation,  which  it  was  never  prudent 
to  refuse,  to  the  hut  of  the  Thief,  learned  something  of 
the  history  of  the  young  man,  and  his  crime.  His  home, 
it  was  told  him,  was  among  the  rich  hills  of  Kathay,  as 
they  range  far  northward,  where  the  tropic  sun  loses  the 
intense  fierceness  of  his  blaze,  and  makes  the  atmosphere 
soft  and  luxurious,  as  though  it  were  mellowing  beneath 
the  same  amber  sky  which  ripens  the  fruits,  and  gives 
their  glow  to  the  flowers.  What  had  been  his  rank  in 
his  own  land,  the  jailer's  wife  did  not  know.  Perhaps 
he  had  been  a  prince,  chief  of  the  brave  band  conquered 
by  the  superior  force  of  the  Burmans ;  or  a  hunter  among 
the  spicy  groves  and  deep-wooded  jungles,  lithe  as  the 
tiger  which  he  pursued  from  lair  to  lair,  and  free  as  the 
flame-winged  bird  of  the  sun  that  circled  above  him ;  or 
perhaps  his  destiny  had  been  a  humbler  one,  and  he  had 
but  followed  his  goats  as  they  bounded  fearlessly  from 


THE    KATHAYAN    SLAVE.  155 

ledge  to  ledge,  and  plucked  for  food  the  herbs  upon  his 
native  hills.  He  had  been  brought  away  by  a  marauding 
party,  and  presented  as  a  slave  to  the  brother  of  the 
queen.  This  Men-thah-gyee,  the  Great  Prince,  as  he 
was  called,  by  way  of  pre-eminence,  had  risen,  through 
the  influence  of  his  sister,  from  the  humble  condition 
of  a  fishmonger,  to  be  the  Richelieu  of  the  nation.  Un- 
popular from  his  mean  origin,  and  still  more  unpopular 
from  the  acts  of  brutality  to  which  the  intoxication  of 
power  had  given  rise,  the  sympathy  excited  by  the  poor 
Kathayan  in  the  breasts  of  these  wretches  may  easily  be 
accounted  for.  It  was  not  pity  or  mercy,  but  hatred. 
Anywhere  else,  the  sufferer's  sad,  handsome  face,  and 
mild,  uncomplaining  manner,  would  have  enlisted  sympa- 
thy; but  here,  they  would  scarcely  have  seen  the  sad- 
ness, or  beauty,  or  mildness,  except  through  the  medium 
of  a  passion  congenial  to  their  own  natures. 

Among  the  other  slaves  of  Men-thah-gyee  was  a  young 
Kathay  girl  of  singular  beauty.  She  was,  so  said  Madam 
the  Thief,  a  bundle  of  roses,  set  round  with  the  fragrant 
blossoms  of  the  champac-tree ;  her  breath  was  like  that 
of  the  breezes  when  they  come  up  from  their  dalliance 
with  the  spicy  daughters  of  the  islands  of  the  south ;  her 
voice  had  caught  its  rich  cadence  from  the  musical  gush 
of  the  silver  fountain,  which  wakes  among  the  green  of 
her  native  hills;  her  hair  had  been  braided  from  the 
glossy  raven  plumage  of  the  royal  edolius ;  her  eyes  were 
twin  stars  looking  out  from  cool  springs,  all  fringed  with 
the  long,  tremulous  reeds  of  the  jungle;  and  her  step 
was  as  the  free,  graceful  bound  of  the  wild  antelope.  On 
the  subject  of  her  grace,  her  beauty,  and  her  wondroua 


156  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

daring,  the  jailer's  wife  could  not  be  sufficiently  eloquent. 
And  so  this  poor,  proud,  simple-souled  maiden,  this  dia- 
mond from  the  rich  hills  of  Kathay,  destined  to  glitter 
for  an  hour  or  two  on  a  prince's  bosom,  unsubdued  even 
in  her  desolation,  had  dared  to  bestow  her  affections  with 
the  uncalculating  lavishness  of  conscious  heart-freedom. 
And  the  poor  wretch,  lying  upon  his  back  in  the  death- 
prison,  his  feet  fast  in  the  stocks  and  swelling  and  pur- 
pling beneath  the  heavy  irons,  had  participated  in  her 
crime ;  had  lured  her  on,  by  tender  glances  and  by  loving 
words,  inexpressibly  sweet  in  their  mutual  bondage,  to 
irretrievable  destruction.  What  fears,  what  hopes  winged 
by  fears,  what  tremulous  joys,  still  hedged  in  by  that 
same  crowd  of  fears,  what  despondency,  what  revulsions 
of  impotent  anger  and  daring,  what  weeping,  what  de- 
spair, must  have  been  theirs  !  Their  tremblings  and  re- 
joicings, their  mad  projects,  growing  each  day  wilder 
and  more  dangerous,  —  since  madness  alone  could  have 
given  rise  to  anything  like  hope,  —  are  things  left  to  im- 
agination ;  for  there  was  none  to  relate  the  heart-history 
of  the  two  slaves  of  Men-thah-gyee.  Yet  there  were  some 
hints  of  a  first  accidental  meeting  under  the  shadow  of 
the  mango  and  tamarind  trees,  where  the  sun  lighted  up, 
by  irregular  gushes,  the  waters  of  the  little  lake  in  the 
centre  of  the  garden,  and  the  rustle  of  leaves  seemed  suf- 
ficient to  drown  the  accents  of  their  native  tongues.  So 
they  looked,  spoke,  their  hearts  bounded,  paused,  trem- 
bled with  soft  home-memories :  they  wliispered  on,  and 
they  were  lost.  Poor  slaves ! 

Then  at  evening,  when  the  dark-browed  maidens  of  the 
golden  city  gathered,  with  their  earthen  vessels,  about 


THE    KATHAYAN    SLAVE.  157 

the  well,  —  there,  shaded  by  the  thick  clumps  of  bamboo, 
with  the  free  sky  overhead,  the  green  earth  beneath,  and 
the  songs  and  laughter  of  the  merry  girls  ringing  in  their 
ears,  so  like  their  own  home,  the  home  which  they  had 
lost  forever,  —  0,  what  a  rare,  sweet,  dangerous  meeting- 
place  for  those  who  should  not,  and  yet  must  be  lovers ! 

Finally  came  a  day  fraught  with  illimitable  consequen- 
ces, —  the  day  when  the  young  slave,  not  yet  admitted  to 
the  royal  harem,  should  become  more  than  ever  the  prop- 
erty of  her  master.  And  now  deeper  grew  their  agony, 
more  uncontrollable  their  madness,  wilder  and  more  dar- 
ing their  hopes,  with  every  passing  moment.  Not  a  man 
in  Ava,  but  would  have  told  them  that  escape  was  impos- 
sible ;  and  yet,  goaded  on  by  love  and  despair,  they  at- 
tempted the  impossibility.  They  had  countrymen  in  the 
city,  and,  under  cover  of  night,  they  fled  to  them.  Im- 
mediately the  minister  sent  out  his  myrmidons ;  they  were 
tracked,  captured,  and  brought  back  to  the  palace. 

"And  what  became  of  the  poor  girl?"  inquired  the 
missionary  with  much  interest. 

The  woman  shuddered,  and  beneath  her  scars  and  the 
swarthiness  of  her  skin  she  became  deadly  pale. 

"  There  is  a  cellar,  Tsayah,"  at  last  she  whispered,  still 
shuddering,  "  a  deep  cellar,  that  no  one  has  seen,  but 
horrible  cries  come  from  it  sometimes,  and  two  nights 
ago,  for  three  hours,  three  long  hours  —  such  shrieks ! 
Amai-ai !  what  shrieks !  And  they  say  that  he  was  there, 
Tsayah,  and  saw  and  heard  it  all.  That  is  the  reason 
that  his  eyes  are  blinded  and  his  ears  benumbed.  A 
great  many  go  into  that  cellar,  but  none  ever  come  out 
again, — none  but  the  doomed  like  him.  It  is — it  it 


158  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

like  the  West  Prison"  she  added,  sinking  her  voice  still 
lower,  and  casting  an  eager,  alarmed  look  about  her.  The 
missionary  too  shuddered,  as  much  at  the  mention  of  this 
prison,  as  at  the  recital  of  the  woman ;  for  it  shut  within 
its  walls  deep  mysteries,  which  even  his  jailers,  accus- 
tomed as  they  were  to  torture  and  death,  shrank  from 
babbling  of. 

The  next  day  a  cord  was  passed  around  the  wrists  of 
the  young  Kathayan,  his  arms  jerked  up  into  a  position 
perpendicular  with  his  prostrate  body,  and  the  end  of 
the  cord  fastened  to  a  beam  overhead.  Still,  though  faint 
from  the  lack  of  food,  parched  with  thirst,  and  racked 
with  pain,  for  his  feet  were  swollen  and  livid,  not  a  mur- 
mur of  complaint  escaped  his  lips.  And  yet  this  patient 
endurance  seemed  scarcely  the  result  of  fortitude  or 
heroism  ;  an  observer  would  have  said  that  the  inner  suf- 
fering was  so  great  as  to  render  that  of  the  mere  physi- 
cal frame  unheeded.  There  was  the  same  expression  of 
hopelessness,  the  same  unvarying  wretchedness,  too  deep, 
too  real,  to  think  of  giving  itself  utterance  on  the  face  as 
at  his  first  entrance  into  the  prison ;  and  except  that  he 
now  and  then  fixed  on  one  of  the  hopeless  beings  who 
regarded  him  in  silent  pity  a  mournful,  half-beseeching, 
half- vacant  stare,  this  was  all. 

That  day  passed  away  as  others  had  passed  ;  then  came 
another  night  of  dreams,  in  which  loved  ones  gathered 
around  the  hearth-stone  of  a  dear,  distant  home ;  dreams 
broken  by  the  clanking  of  chains  and  the  groans  of  the 
suffering ;  and  then  morning  broke.  There  still  hung 
the  poor  Kathayan ;  his  face  slightly  distorted  with  the 
agony  he  was  suffering,  his  lips  dry  and  parched,  his 


THE    KATHAYAN    SLAVE.  159 

cheek  pallid  and  sunken,  and  his  eyes  wild  and  glaring. 
His  breast  swelled  and  heaved,  and  now  and  then  a  sob- 
like  sigh  burst  forth  involuntarily.  When  the  Tiger 
entered,  the  eye  of  the  young  man  immediately  fastened 
on  him,  and  a  shiver  passed  through  his  frame.  The  old 
murderer  went  his  usual  rounds  with  great  nonchalance  ; 
gave  an  order  here,  a  blow  there,  and  cracked  a  malicious 
joke  with  a  third ;  smiling  all  the  tune  that  dark,  sinister 
smile,  which  made  him  so  much  more  hideous  in  the 
midst  of  his  wickedness.  At  last  he  approached  the 
Kathayan,  who,  with  a  convulsive  movement,  half  raised 
himself  from  the  ground  at  his  touch,  and  seemed  to  con- 
tract like  a  shrivelled  leaf. 

"  Right !  right,  my  son ! "  said  the  old  man,  chuck- 
ling. "  You  are  expert  at  helping  yourself,  to  be  sure ; 
but  then  you  need  assistance.  So,  —  so,  —  so  !  "  and 
giving  the  cord  three  successive  jerks,  he  succeeded,  by 
means  of  his  immense  strength,  in  raising  the  Kathayan 
so  that  but  the  back  of  his  head,  as  it  fell  downward, 
could  touch  the  floor.  There  was  a  quick,  short  crack- 
ling of  joints,  and  a  groan  escaped  the  prisoner.  Another 
groan  followed,  and  then  another,  —  and  another,  —  a 
heaving  of  the  chest,  a  convulsive  shiver,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment he  seemed  lost.  Human  hearts  glanced  heaven- 
ward. "  God  grant  it !  Father  of  mercies,  spare  him 
further  agony !  "  It  could  not  be.  Gaspingly  came  the 
lost  breath  back  again,  quiveringly  the  soft  eyes  unclosed; 
and  the  young  Kathayan  captive  was  fully  awake  to  his 
misery. 

"  I  cannot  die  so,  —  I  cannot,  — so  slow,  —  so  slow, 
—  so  slow !  "  Hunger  gnawed,  thirst  burned,  fever  rev- 


160  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

elled  in  his  veins ;  the  cord  upon  his  wrists  cut  to  the 
bone ;  corruption  had  already  commenced  upon  his 
swollen,  livid  feet ;  the  most  frightful,  torturing  pains 
distorted  his  body,  and  wrung  from  him  groans  and  mur- 
murings  so  pitiful,  so  harrowing,  so  full  of  anguish,  that 
the  unwilling  listeners  could  only  turn  away  their  heads, 
or  lift  their  eyes  to  each  other's  faces  in  mute  horror. 
Not  a  word  was  exchanged  among  them,  —  not  a  lip  had 
power  to  give  it  utterance. 

"  I  cannot  die  so  !  I  cannot  die  so !  I  cannot  die 
so !  "  came  the  words,  at  first  moaningly,  and  then  pro- 
longed to  a  terrible  howl.  And  so  passed  another  day, 
and  another  night,  and  still  the  wretch  lived  on. 

In  the  midst  of  their  filth  and  smothering  heat,  the 
prisoners  awoke  from  such  troubled  sleep  as  they  could 
gain  amid  these  horrors ;  and  those  who  could,  pressed 
their  feverish  lips  and  foreheads  to  the  crevices  between 
the  boards,  to  court  the  morning  breezes.  A  lady,  with 
a  white  brow,  and  a  lip  whose  delicate  vermilion  had  not 
ripened  beneath  the  skies  of  India,  came  with  food  to  her 
husband.  By  constant  importunity  had  the  beautiful 
ministering  angel  gained  this  holy  privilege.  Her  com- 
ing was  like  a  gleam  of  sunlight,  —  a  sudden  unfolding  of 
the  beauties  of  this  bright  earth  to  one  born  blind.  She 
performed  her  usual  tender  ministry  and  departed. 

Day  advanced  to  its  meridian ;  and  once  more,  but  now 
hesitatingly,  and  as  though  he  dreaded  his  task,  the  Tiger 
drew  near  the  young  Kathayan.  But  the  sufferer  did  not 
shrink  from  him  as  before. 

"  Quick  !  "  he  exclaimed  greedily,  —  "  quick  !  give  me 
one  hand  and  the  cord, — just  a  moment,  a  single  mo- 


THE    KATHAYAN   SLAVE.  161 

ment,  —  this  hand  with  the  cord  in  it,  —  and  you  shall 
be  rid  of  me  forever  !  " 

The  Tiger  burst  into  a  hideous  laugh,  his  habitual  cru- 
elty returning  at  the  sound  of  his  victim's  voice. 

"  Rid  of  you  !  not  so  fast,  my  son ;  not  so  fast !  You 
•will  hold  out  a  day  or  two  yet.  Let  me  see  !  "  passing 
his  hand  along  the  emaciated,  feverish  body  of  the  suf- 
ferer. "  O,  yes ;  two  days  at  least,  perhaps  three,  and  it 
may  be  longer.  Patience,  my  son;  you  are  frightfully 
strong !  Now  these  joints,  —  why  any  other  man's  would 
have  separated  long  ago ;  but  here  they  stay  just  as  firm- 
ly —  "  As  he  spoke  with  a  calculating  sort  of  delibera- 
tion, the  monster  gave  the  cord  a  sudden  jerk,  then 
another,  and  a  third,  raising  his  victim  still  farther  from 
the  floor,  and  then  adjusting  it  about  the  beam,  walked 
unconcernedly  away.  For  several  minutes  the  prison 
rung  with  the  most  fearful  cries.  Shriek  followed  shriek, 
agonized,  furious,  with  scarcely  a  breath  between ;  bel- 
lowings,  howlings,  gnashings  of  the  teeth,  sharp,  piercing 
screams,  yells  of  savage  defiance  ;  cry  upon  cry,  cry  upon 
cry,  with  wild  superhuman  strength,  they  came;  while 
the  prisoners  shrank  in  awe  and  terror,  trembling  in  their 
chains.  But  this  violence  soon  exhausted  itself,  and  the 
paroxysm  passed,  giving  place  to  low,  sad  moans,  irre- 
sistibly pitiful.  This  was  a  day  never  to  be  forgotten  by 
the  hundred  wretched  creatures  congregated  in  the  gloomy 
death-prison.  The  sun  had  never  seemed  to  move  so 
slowly  before.  Its  setting  was  gladly  welcomed,  but  yet 
the  night  brought  no  change.  Those  piteous  moans, 
those  agonized  groanings,  seemed  no  nearer  an  end  than 
ever. 

K 


162  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Another  day  passed,  —  another  night,  —  again  day 
dawned  and  drew  near  its  close ;  and  yet  the  poor  Kath- 
ayan  clung  to  life  with  frightful  tenacity.  One  of  the 
missionaries,  as  a  peculiar  favor,  had  been  allowed  to 
creep  into  an  old  shed,  opposite  the  door  of  the  prison ; 
and  here  he  was  joined  by  a  companion,  just  as  the  day 
was  declining  towards  evening. 

"  O,  will  it  ever  end  ?  "  whispered  one. 

The  other  only  bowed  his  head  between  his  hands,  — 
"Terrible!  terrible!" 

"There  surely  can  be  nothing  worse  in  the  West 
Prison." 

"  Can  there  be  anything  worse,  —  can  there  be  more 
finished  demons  in  the  pit  ?  " 

Suddenly,  while  this  broken  conversation  was  con- 
ducted in  a  low  tone,  so  as  not  to  draw  upon  the  speakers 
the  indignation  of  their  jailers,  they  were  struck  by  the 
singular  stillness  of  the  prison.  The  clanking  of  chains, 
the  murmur  and  the  groan,  the  heavy  breathing  of  con- 
gregated living  beings,  the  bustle  occasioned  by  the  con- 
tinuous uneasy  movement  of  the  restless  sufferers,  the 
ceaseless  tread  of  the  Children  of  the  Prison,  and  thetf 
bullying  voices,  all  were  hushed. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  in  a  lower  whisper  than  ever ;  and  a 
shaking  of  the  head,  and  holding  their  own  chains  to  pre- 
vent their  rattle,  and  looks  full  of  wonder,  was  all  that 
passed  between  the  two  listeners.  Their  amazement  was 
interrupted  by  a  dull,  heavy  sound,  as  though  a  bag  of 
dried  bones  had  been  suddenly  crushed  down  by  the 
weight  of  some  powerful  foot.  Silently  they  stole  to  a 
crevice  in  the  boards,  opposite  the  open  door.  Not  a 


THE    KATHAYAN    SLAVE.  163 

jailer  was  to  be  seen ;  and  the  prisoners  were  motionless 
and  apparently  breathless,  with  the  exception  of  one  pow- 
erful man,  who  was  just  drawing  the  wooden  mallet  in 
his  hand  for  another  blow  on  the  temple  of  the  sus- 
pended Kathayan.  It  came  down  witli  the  same  dull, 
hollow,  crushing  sound ;  the  body  swayed  from  the  point 
where  it  was  suspended  by  wrist  and  ankle,  till  it  seemed 
that  every  joint  must  be  dislocated ;  but  the  flesh  scarcely 
quivered.  The  blow  was  repeated,  and  then  another,  and 
another ;  but  they  were  not  needed.  The  poor  captive 
Kathayan  was  dead. 

The  mallet  was  placed  away  from  sight,  and  the  daring 
man  hobbled  back  to  his  corner,  dangling  his  heavy  chain 
as  though  it  had  been  a  plaything,  and  striving  with  all 
his  might  to  look  unconscious  and  unconcerned.  An  evi- 
dent feeling  of  relief  stole  over  the  prisoners ;  the  Chil- 
dren of  the  Prison  came  back  to  their  places,  one  by  one, 
and  all  went  on  as  before.  It  was  some  time  before  any 
one  appeared  to  discover  the  death  of  the  Kathayan. 
The  old  Tiger  declared  it  was  what  he  had  been  expect- 
ing, that  his  living  on  in  this  manner  was  quite  out  of 
rule ;  but  that  those  hardy  fellows  from  the  hills  never 
would  give  in,  while  there  was  a  possibility  of  drawing 
another  breath.  Then  the  poor  skeleton  was  unchained, 
dragged  by  the  heels  into  the  prison-yard,  and  thrown 
into  a  gutter.  It  did  not  apparently  fall  properly,  for 
one  of  the  jailers  altered  the  position  of  the  shoulders  by 
means  of  his  foot ;  then  clutching  the  long  black  hair, 
jerked  the  head  a  little  farther  on  the  side.  Thus  the 
discolored  temple  was  hidden ;  and  surely  that  emaciated 
form  gave  sufficient  evidence  of  a  lingering  death.  Soon 


164  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

after,  a  party  of  government  officers  visited  the  prison- 
yard,  touched  the  corpse  with  their  feet,  without  raising 
it,  and,  apparently  satisfied,  turned  away,  as  though  it 
had  been  a  dead  dog,  that  they  cared  not  to  give  further 
attention. 

Is  it  strange  that,  if  one  were  there,  with  a  human 
heart  within  him,  not  brutalized  by  crime  or  steeled  by 
passive  familiarity  with  suffering,  he  should  have  dragged 
his  heavy  chain  to  the  side  of  the  dead,  and  dropped 
upon  his  sharpened,  distorted  features  the  tear,  which 
there  was  none  who  had  loved  him  to  shed?  Is  it 
strange  that  tender  fingers  should  have  closed  the  staring 
eyes,  and  touched  gently  the  cold  brow,  which  throbbed 
no  longer  with  pain,  and  smoothed  the  frayed  hair,  and 
composed  the  passive  limbs  decently,  though  he  knew 
that  the  next  moment  rude  hands  would  destroy  the  re- 
sult of  his  pious  labor  ?  And  is  it  strange  that  when  all 
which  remained  of  the  poor  sufferer  had  been  jostled  into 
its  sackcloth  shroud,  and  crammed  down  into  the  dark 
hole  dug  for  it  in  the  earth,  a  prayer  should  have  as- 
cended, even  from  that  terrible  prison  ?  Not  a  prayer 
for  the  dead ;  he  had  received  his  doom.  But  an  earnest, 
beseeching  upheaving  of  the  heart,  for  those  wretched 
beings  that,  in  the  face  of  the  pure  heavens  and  the 
smiling  earth,  confound,  by  the  inherent  blackness  of 
their  natures,  philosopher,  priest,  or  philanthropist,  who 
dares  to  tickle  the  ears  of  the  multitude  with  fair  theories 
of  "  Natural  religion,"  and  "  The  dignity  of  human  na- 
ture." 


THE   STORY   OF   LA  ROCHE. 

BY  HENRY  MACKENZIE. 

JOKE  than  forty  years  ago  an  English  philoso- 
pher, whose  works  have  since  been  read  and 
admired  by  all  Europe,  resided  at  a  little  town 
in  France.  Some  disappointments  in  his  native  country 
had  first  driven  him  abroad,  and  he  was  afterward  in- 
duced to  remain  there  from  having  fonnd,  in  this  retreat, 
where  the  connections  even  of  nation  and  language  were 
avoided,  a  perfect  seclusion  and  retirement  highly  favor- 
able to  the  development  of  abstract  subjects,  in  which  he 
excelled  all  the  writers  of  his  time. 

Perhaps,  in  the  structure  of  such  a  mind  as  Mr. 's, 

the  finer  and  more  delicate  sensibilities  are  seldom  known 
to  have  place,  or,  if  originally  implanted  there,  are  in  a 
great  measure  extinguished  by  the  exertions  of  intense 
study  and  profound  investigation.  Hence  the  idea  of 
philosophy  and  unfeelingness  being  united  has  become 
proverbial,  and,  in  common  language,  the  former  word  is 
often  used  to  express  the  latter.  Our  philosopher  had 
been  censured  by  some  as  deficient  in  warmth  and  feel- 
ing ;  but  the  mildness  of  his  manners  has  been  allowed 


166  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

by  all,  and  it  is  certain  that,  if  he  was  not  easily  melted 
into  compassion,  it  was  at  least  not  difficult  to  awaken 
his  benevolence. 

One  morning,  while  he  sat  busied  in  those  speculations 
which  afterward  astonished  the  world,  an  old  female 
domestic,  who  served  him  for  a  housekeeper,  brought 
him  word  that  an  elderly  gentleman  and  his  daughter 
had  arrived  in  the  village  the  preceding  evening,  on  their 
way  to  some  distant  country,  and  that  the  father  had 
been  suddenly  seized  in  the  night  with  a  dangerous 
disorder,  which  the  people  of  the  inn  where  they  lodged 
feared  would  prove  mortal ;  that  she  had  been  sent  for, 
as  having  some  knowledge  of  medicine,  the  village  sur- 
geon being  then  absent ;  and  that  it  was  truly  piteous  to 
see  the  good  old  man,  who  seemed  not  so  much  afflicted 
by  his  own  distress  as  by  that  which  it  caused  to  his 
daughter.  Her  master  laid  aside  the  volume  in  his  hand, 
and  broke  off  the  chain  of  ideas  it  had  inspired.  His 
nightgown  was  exchanged  for  a  coat,  and  he  followed 
his  ffouvernante  to  the  sick  man's  apartment. 

It  was  the  best  in  the  inn  where  they  lay,  but  a  paltry 

one  notwithstanding.  Mr. was  obliged  to  stoop  as 

he  entered  it.  It  was  floored  with  earth,  and  above  were 
the  joists  not  plastered,  and  hung  with  cobwebs.  On  a 
flock-bed,  at  one  end,  lay  the  old  man  he  came  to  visit ; 
at  the  foot  of  it  sat  his  daughter.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
clean  white  bedgown ;  her  dark  locks  hung  loosely  over 
it  as  she  bent  forward,  watching  the  languid  looks  of  her 

father.  Mr. and  his  housekeeper  had  stood  some 

moments  in  the  room  without  the  young  lady's  being 
sensible  of  their  entering  it. 


THE  STORY  OF  LA  ROCHE.       167 

"  Mademoiselle !  "  said  the  old  woman  at  last,  in  a 
soft  tone. 

She  turned  and  showed  one  of  the  finest  faces  in  the 
world.  It  was  touched,  not  spoiled,  with  sorrow;  and 
when  she  perceived  a  stranger,  whom  the  old  woman 
now  introduced  to  her,  a  blush  at  first,  and  then  the 
gentle  ceremonial  of  native  politeness,  which  the  affliction 
of  the  time  tempered  but  did  not  extinguish,  crossed  it 
for  a  moment  and  changed  its  expression.  It  was  sweet- 
ness all,  however,  and  our  philosopher  felt  it  strongly. 
It  was  not  a  time  for  words ;  he  offered  his  services  in  a 
few  sincere  ones. 

"Monsieur  lies  miserably  ill  here,"  said  the  gouver- 
nante ;  "  if  he  could  possibly  be  moved  anywhere." 

"  If  he  could  be  moved  to  our  house,"  said  her  master. 
He  had  a  spare  bed  for  a  friend,  and  there  was  a  garret 
room  unoccupied,  next  to  the  ffouvernante's. 

It  was  contrived  accordingly.  The  scruples  of  the 
stranger,  who  could  look  scruples  though  he  could  not 
speak  them,  were  overcome,  and  the  bashful  reluctance 
of  his  daughter  gave  way  to  her  belief  of  its  use  to  her 
father.  The  sick  man  was  wrapped  in  blankets,  and 
carried  across  the  street  to  the  English  gentleman's. 
The  old  woman  helped  his  daughter  to  nurse  him  there. 
The  surgeon,  who  arrived  soon  after,  prescribed  a  little, 
and  nature  did  much  for  him ;  in  a  week  he  was  able  to 
thank  his  benefactor. 

By  that  time  his  host  had  learned  the  name  and  char- 
acter of  his  guest.  He  was  a  Protestant  clergyman  of 
Switzerland,  called  La  Roche,  a  widower,  who  had  lately 
buried  his  wife,  after  a  long  and  lingering  illness,  for 


168  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

•which  travelling  had  been  prescribed,  and  was  now 
returning  home,  after  an  ineffectual  and  melancholy 
journey,  with  his  only  child,  the  daughter  we  have 
mentioned. 

He  was  a  devout  man,  as  became  his  profession.  He 
possessed  devotion  in  all  its  warmth,  but  with  none  of 
its  asperity,  —  I  mean  that  asperity  which  men,  called 
devout,  sometimes  indulge  in. 

Mr. ,  though  he  felt  no  devotion,  never  quarrelled 

with  it  in  others.  His  gouvernante  joined  the  old  man 
and  his  daughter  in  the  prayers  and  thanksgivings  which 
they  put  up  on  his  recovery ;  for  she  too  was  a  heretic, 
in  the  phrase  of  the  village.  The  philosopher  walked 
out,  with  his  long  staff  and  his  dog,  and  left  them  to 
their  prayers  and  thanksgivings. 

"  My  master,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  alas !  he  is  not 
a  Christian;  but  he  is  the  best  of  unbelievers." 

"  Not  a  Christian ! "  exclaimed  Mademoiselle  La 
Roche,  "  yet  he  saved  my  father !  Heaven  bless  him  for 
it !  I  would  he  were  a  Christian." 

"  There  is  a  pride  in  human  knowledge,  my  child," 
said  her  father,  "  which  often  blinds  men  to  the  sublime 
truths  of  revelation ;  hence  opposers  of  Christianity  are 
found  among  men  of  virtuous  lives,  as  well  as  among 
those  of  dissipated  and  licentious  characters.  Nay, 
sometimes  I  have  known  the  latter  more  easily  converted 
to  the  true  faith  than  the  former,  because  the  fume  of 
passion  is  more  easily  dissipated  than  the  mist  of  false 
theory  and  delusive  speculation." 

"  But  Mr. ,"  said  his  daughter,  "alas !  my  father, 

Ae  shall  be  a  Christian  before  he  dies."  She  was  inter- 


THE  STORY  OF  LA  ROCHE.       169 

rupted  by  1he  arrival  of  their  landlord.  He  took  her 
hand  with  an  air  of  kindness.  She  drew  it  away  from 
him  in  sil«nce,  threw  down  her  eyes  to  the  ground,  and 
left  the  room. 

"  I  have  been  thanking  God,"  said  the  good  La  Roche, 
"  for  my  recovery." 

"  That  is  right,"  replied  his  landlord. 

"  I  would  not  wish,"  continued  the  old  man  hesitat- 
ingly, "  to  think  otherwise.  Did  I  not  look  up  with 
gratitude  to  that  Being,  I  should  barely  be  satisfied  with 
my  recovery  as  a  continuation  of  life,  which,  it  may  be, 
is  not  a  real  good.  Alas !  I  may  live  to  wish  I  had  died, 
that  you  had  left  me  to  die,  sir,  instead  of  kindly  relieving 

me," — he  clasped  Mr' 's  hand,  —  "  but,  when  I  look 

on  this  renovated  being  as  the  gift  of  the  Almighty,  I 
feel  a  far  different  sentiment ;  my  heart  dilates  with  grat- 
itude and  love  to  him ;  it  is  prepared  for  doing  his  will, 
not  as  a  duty,  but  as  a  pleasure,  and  regards  every  breach 
of  it,  not  with  disapprobation,  but  with  horror." 

"  You  say  right,  my  dear  sir,"  replied  the  philosopher, 
"  but  you  are  not  yet  re-established  enough  to  talk  much ; 
you  must  take  care  of  your  health,  and  neither  study  nor 
preach  for  some  time.  I  have  been  thinking  over  a 
scheme  that  struck  me  to-day  when  you  mentioned  your 
intended  departure.  I  never  was  in  Switzerland.  I 
have  a  great  mind  to  accompany  your  daughter  and  you 
into  that  country.  I  will  help  to  take  care  of  you  by  the 
road;  for  as  I  was  your  first  physician,  I  hold  myself 
responsible  for  your  cure." 

La  Roche's  eyes  glistened  at  the  proposal.  His  daugh- 
ter was  called  in  and  told  of  it.  She  was  equally  pleased 


170  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

•with  her  father,  for  they  really  loved  their  landlord,  — 
not  perhaps  the  less  for  his  infidelity ;  at  least,  that  cir- 
cumstance mixed  a  sort  of  pity  with  their  regard  for  him, 
—  their  souls  were  not  of  a  mould  for  harsher  feelings ; 
hatred  never  dwelt  in  them. 

They  travelled  by  short  stages;  for  the  philosopher 
was  as  good  as  his  word  in  taking  care  that  the  old  man 
should  not  be  fatigued.  The  party  had  time  to  be  well 
acquainted  with  each  other,  and  their  friendship  was  in- 
creased by  acquaintance.  La  Roche  found  a  degree  of 
simplicity  and  gentleness  in  his  companion  which  is  not 
always  annexed  to  the  character  of  a  learned  or  a  wise 
man.  His  daughter,  who  was  prepared  to  be  afraid  of 
him,  was  equally  undeceived.  She  found  in  him  nothing 
of  that  self-importance  which  superior  parts,  or  great 
cultivation  of  them,  is  apt  to  confer.  He  talked  of 
everything  but  philosophy  and  religion;  he  seemed  to 
enjoy  every  pleasure  and  amusement  of  ordinary  life,  and 
to  be  interested  in  the  most  common  topics  of  discourse ; 
when  his  knowledge  of  learning  at  any  time  appeared, 
it  was  delivered  with  the  utmost  plainness  and  without 
the  least  shadow  of  dogmatism. 

On  his  part,  he  was  charmed  with  the  society  of  the 
good  clergyman  and  his  lovely  daughter.  He  found  in 
them  the  guileless  manner  of  the  earliest  times,  with  the 
culture  and  accomplishment  of  the  most  refined  ones  ; 
every  better  feeling  warm  and  vivid,  every  ungentle  one 
repressed  or  overcome.  He  was  not  addicted  to  love ; 
but  he  felt  himself  happy  in  being  the  friend  of  Mad- 
emoiselle La  Roche,  and  sometimes  envied  her  father 
the  possession  of  such  a  child. 


THE    STORY   OF    LA   ROCHE.  171 

After  a  journey  of  eleven  days,  they  arrived  at  the 
dwelling  of  La  Roche.  It  was  situated  in  one  of  those 
valleys  of  the  canton  of  Berne,  where  Nature  seems  to 
repose,  as  it  were,  in  quiet,  and  has  enclosed  her  retreat 
with  mountains  inaccessible.  A  stream,  that  spent  its 
fury  in  the  hills  above,  ran  in  front  of  the  house,  and  a 
broken  waterfall  was  seen  through  the  wood  that  covered 
its  sides;  below  it  circled  round  a  tufted  plain,  and 
formed  a  little  lake  in  front  of  a  village,  at  the  end  of 
which  appeared  the  spire  of  La  Roche's  church,  rising 
above  a  clump  of  beeches. 

Mr. enjoyed  the  beauty  of  the  scene;  but  to  his 

companions  it  recalled  the  memory  of  a  wife  and  parent 
they  had  lost.  The  old  man's  sorrow  was  silent;  his 
daughter  sobbed  and  wept.  Her  father  took  her  hand, 
kissed  it  twice,  pressed  it  to  his  bosom,  threw  up  his  eyes 
to  heaven,  and,  having  wiped  off  a  tear  that  was  just 
about  to  drop  from  each,  began  to  point  out  to  his  guest 
some  of  the  most  striking  objects  which  the  prospect 
afforded.  The  philosopher  interpreted  all  this,  and  he 
could  but  slightly  censure  the  creed  from  which  it  arose. 

They  had  not  been  long  arrived  when  a  number  of  La 
lloche's  parishioners,  who  had  heard  of  his  return,  came 
to  the  house  to  see  and  welcome  him.  The  honest  folks 
were  awkward,  but  sincere,  in  their  professions  of  re- 
gard. They  made  some  attempts  at  condolence  ;  it  was 
too  delicate  for  their  handling,  but  La  Roche  took  it  in 
good  part.  "  It  has  pleased  God,"  said  he ;  and  they 
saw  he  had  settled  the  matter  with  himself.  Philosophy 
could  not  have  done  so  much  with  a  thousand  words. 

It  was  now  evening,  and  the  good  peasants  were 


172  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

about  to  depart,  when  a  clock  was  heard  to  strike  seven, 
and  the  hour  was  followed  by  a  particular  chime.  The 
country  folks,  who  had  come  to  welcome  their  pastor, 
turned  their  looks  toward  him  at  the  sound.  He  ex- 
plained their  meaning  to  his  guest. 

"  That  is  the  signal,"  said  he,  "  for  our  evening  exer- 
cise. This  is  one  of  the  nights  of  the  week  in  which 
some  of  my  parishioners  are  wont  to  join  in  it ;  a  little 
rustic  saloon  serves  for  the  chapel  of  our  family  and  such 
of  the  good  people  as  are  with  us.  If  you  choose  rather 
to  walk  out,  I  will  furnish  you  with  an  attendant ;  or 
here  are  a  few  old  books  that  may  afford  you  some  enter- 
tainment within." 

"  By  no  means,"  answered  the  philosopher ;  "  I  will 
attend  Mademoiselle  at  her  devotions." 

"  She  is  our  organist,"  said  La  Roche.  "  Our  neigh- 
borhood is  the  country  of  musical  mechanism,  and  I  have 
a  small  organ  fitted  up  for  the  purpose  of  assisting  our 
singing." 

"  'T  is  an  additional  inducement,"  replied  the  other ; 
and  they  walked  into  the  room  together. 

At  the  end  stood  the  organ  mentioned  by  La  Roche ; 
before  it  was  a  curtain,  which  his  daughter  drew  aside, 
and,  placing  herself  on  a  seat  within  and  drawing  the 
curtain  close  so  as  to  save  her  the  awkwardness  of  an 
exhibition,  began  a  voluntary,  solemn  and  beautiful  in 

the  highest  degree.  Mr. was  no  musician,  but  he 

was  not  altogether  insensible  to  music  ;  and  this  fastened 
on  his  mind  more  strongly  from  its  beauty  being  unex- 
pected. The  solemn  prelude  introduced  a  hymn,  in 
which  such  of  the  audience  as  could  sing  immediately 


THE    STORY    OF   LA   ROCHE.  173 

joined.  The  words  were  mostly  taken  from  holy  writ ; 
it  spoke  the  praises  of  God,  and  his  care  of  good  men. 
Something  was  said  of  the  death  of  the  just,  of  such  as 
die  in  the  Lord.  The  organ  was  touched  with  a  hand 
less  firm ;  it  paused ;  it  ceased ;  and  the  sobbing  of 
Mademoiselle  La  Roche  was  heard  in  its  stead.  Her 
father  gave  a  sign  for  stopping  the  psalmody,  and  rose  to 
pray.  He  was  discomposed  at  first,  and  his  voice  fal- 
tered as  he  spoke ;  but  his  heart  was  in  his  words,  and 
its  warmth  overcame  his  embarrassment.  He  addressed 
a  Being  whom  he  loved,  and  he  spoke  for  those  he  loved. 
His  parishioners  caught  the  ardor  of  the  good  old  man ; 
even  the  philosopher  felt  himself  moved,  and  forgot,  for 
a  moment,  to  think  why  he  should  not. 

La  Roche's  religion  was  that  of  sentiment,  not  theory, 
and  his  guest  was  averse  from  disputation ;  their  dis- 
course, therefore,  did  not  lead  to  questions  concerning 
the  belief  of  either ;  yet  would  the  old  man  sometimes 
speak  of  his,  from  the  fulness  of  a  heart  impressed  with 
its  force  and  wishing  to  spread  the  pleasure  he  enjoyed  in 
it.  The  ideas  of  a  God  and  a  Saviour  were  so  con- 
genial to  his  mind,  that  every  emotion  of  it  naturally 
awakened  them.  A  philosopher  might  have  called  him 
an  enthusiast ;  but,  if  he  possessed  the  fervor  of  enthu- 
siasts, he  was  guiltless  of  their  bigotry.  "  Our  Father, 
which  art  in  heaven !  "  might  the  good  man  say,  for  he 
felt  it,  and  all  mankind  were  his  brethren. 

"  You  regret,  my  friend,"  said  he  to  Mr. ,  "  when 

my  daughter  and  I  talk  of  the  exquisite  pleasure  derived 
from  music,  —  you  regret  your  want  of  musical  powers 
and  musical  feelings;  it  is  a  department  of  soul,  you 


174  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

say,  which  nature  has  almost  denied  you,  •which,  from 
the  effects  you  see  it  have  on  others,  you  are  sure  must 
be  highly  delightful.  Why  should  not  the  same  thing  be 
said  of  religion  ?  Trust  me,  I  feel  it  in  the  same  way, 
—  an  energy,  an  inspiration,  which  I  would  not  lose  for 
all  the  blessings  of  sense,  or  enjoyments  of  the  world ; 
yet,  so  far  from  lessening  my  relish  of  the  pleasures  of 
life,  methinks  I  feel  it  heighten  them  all.  The  thought 
of  receiving  it  from  God  adds  the  blessing  of  sentiment 
to  that  of  sensation  in  every  good  thing  I  possess ;  and 
when  calamities  overtake  me,  —  and  I  have  had  my 
share,  —  it  confers  a  dignity  on  my  affliction,  so  lifts  me 
above  the  world.  Man,  I  know,  is  but  a  worm;  yet, 
methinks,  I  am  then  allied  to  God ! " 

It  would  have  been  inhuman  in  our  philosopher  to 
have  clouded,  even  with  a  doubt,  the  sunshine  of  this 
belief.  His  discourse,  indeed,  was  very  remote  from 
metaphysical  disquisition  or  religious  controversy.  Of 
all  men  I  ever  knew,  his  ordinary  conversation  was  the 
least  tinctured  with  pedantry,  or  liable  to  dissertation. 
With  La  Roche  and  his  daughter,  it  was  perfectly  famil- 
iar. The  country  round  them,  the  manners  of  the  vil- 
lagers, the  comparison  of  both  with  those  of  England, 
remarks  on  the  works  of  favorite  authors,  on  the  senti- 
ments they  conveyed  and  the  passions  they  excited,  with 
many  other  topics  in  which  there  was  an  equality  or 
alternate  advantage  among  the  speakers,  were  the  sub- 
jects they  talked  on.  Their  hours,  too,  of  riding  and 

walking  were  many,  in  which  Mr.  ,  as  a  stranger, 

was  shown  the  remarkable  scenes  and  curiosities  of  the 
country.  They  would  sometimes  make  little  expedition* 


THE    STORY    OP   LA   ROCHE.  175 

to  contemplate,  in  different  attitudes,  those  astonishing 
mountains,  the  cliffs  of  which,  covered  with  eternal  snows, 
and  sometimes  shooting  into  fantastic  shapes,  form  the 
termination  of  most  of  the  Swiss  prospects.  Our  philos- 
opher asked  many  questions  as  to  their  natural  history 
and  productions.  La  Roche  observed  the  sublimity  of 
the  ideas  which  the  view  of  their  stupendous  summits, 
inaccessible  to  mortal  foot,  was  calculated  to  inspire, 
which  naturally,  said  he,  leads  the  mind  to  that  Being  by 
whom  their  foundations  were  laid. 

"  They  are  not  seen  in  Flanders,"  said  Mademoiselle 
with  a  sigh. 

"  That 's  an  odd  remark,"  said  Mr. ,  smiling. 

She  blushed,  and  he  inquired  no  further. 

It  was  with  regret  he  left  a  society  in  which  he  found 
himself  so  happy ;  but  he  settled  with  La  Roche  and  his 
daughter  a  plan  of  correspondence,  and  they  took  his 
promise  that,  if  ever  he  came  within  fifty  leagues  of  their 
dwelling,  he  should  travel  those  fifty  leagues  to  visit 
them. 

About  three  years  after,  our  philosopher  was  on  a  visit 
at  Geneva ;  the  promise  he  made  to  La  Roche  and  his 
daughter,  on  his  former  visit,  was  recalled  to  his  mind 
by  the  view  of  that  range  of  mountains  on  a  part  of  which 
they  had  often  looked  together.  There  was  a  reproach, 
too,  conveyed  along  with  the  recollection,  for  his  having 
failed  to  write  to  either  for  several  months  past.  The 
truth  was,  that  indolence  was  the  habit  most  natural  to 
him,  from  which  he  was  not  easily  roused  by  the  claims 
of  correspondence,  either  of  his  friends  or  of  his  enemies ; 
when  the  latter  drew  their  pens  in  controversy,  they  were 


176  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

often  unanswered  as  well  as  the  former.  While  he  was 
hesitating  about  a  visit  to  La  Roche,  which  he  wished  to 
make,  but  found  the  effort  rather  too  much  for  him,  he 
received  a  letter  from  the  old  man,  which  had  been  for- 
warded to  him  from  Paris,  where  he  had  then  fixed  his 

residence.     It  contained  a  gentle  complaint  of  Mr. 's 

want  of  punctuality,  but  an  assurance  of  continued  grati- 
tude for  his  former  good  offices  ;  and,  as  a  friend  whom 
the  writer  considered  interested  in  his  family,  it  informed 
him  of  the  approaching  nuptials  of  Mademoiselle  La 
Roche  with  a  young  man,  a  relation  of  her  own,  and 
formerly  a  pupil  of  her  father's,  of  the  most  amiable  dis- 
positions and  respectable  character.  Attached  from  their 
earliest  years,  they  had  been  separated  by  his  joining  one 
of  the  subsidiary  regiments  of  the  canton,  then  in  the 
service  of  a  foreign  power.  In  this  situation  he  had  dis- 
tinguished himself  as  much  for  courage  and  military  skill 
as  for  the  other  endowments  which  he  had  cultivated  at 
home.  The  time  of  his  service  was  now  expired,  and 
they  expected  him  to  return  in  a  few  weeks,  when  the 
old  man  hoped,  as  he  expressed  it  in  his  letter,  to  join 
their  hands  and  see  them  happy  before  he  died. 

Our  philosopher  felt  himself  interested  in  this  event ; 
but  he  was  not,  perhaps,  altogether  so  happy  in  the  tid- 
ings of  Mademoiselle  La  Roche's  marriage  as  her  father 
supposed  him.  Not  that  he  was  ever  a  lover  of  the 
lady's;  but  he  thought  her  one  of  the  most  amiable 
women  he  had  seen,  and  there  was  something  in  the  idea 
of  her  being  another's  forever  that  struck  him,  he  knew 
not  why,  like  a  disappointment.  After  some  little  spec- 
ulation on  the  matter,  however,  he  could  look  on  it  as  a 


THE    STORY   OF    LA    ROCHE.  177 

thing  fitting  if  not  quite  agreeable,  and  determined  on  this 
visit  to  see  his  old  friend  and  his  daughter  happy. 

On  the  last  day  of  his  journey,  different  accidents  had 
retarded  his  progress :  he  was  benighted  before  he  reached 
the  quarter  in  which  La  Roche  resided.  His  guide,  how- 
ever, was  well  acquainted  with  the  road,  and  he  found 
himself  at  last  in  view  of  the  lake,  which  I  have  before 
described,  in  the  neighborhood  of  La  Roche's  dwelling. 
A  light  gleamed  on  the  water,  that  seemed  to  proceed 
from  the  house ;  it  moved  slowly  along  as  he  proceeded 
up  the  side  of  the  lake,  and  at  last  he  saw  it  glimmer 
through  the  trees,  and  stop  at  some  distance  from  the 
place  where  he  then  was.  He  supposed  it  some  piece 
of  bridal  merriment,  and  pushed  on  his  horse  that  he 
might  be  a  spectator  of  the  scene ;  but  he  was  a  good 
deal  shocked,  on  approaching  the  spot,  to  find  it  proceed 
from  the  torch  of  a  person  clothed  in  the  dress  of  an 
attendant  on  a  funeral,  and  accompanied  by  several  others 
who,  like  him,  seemed  to  have  been  employed  in  the  rites 
of  sepulture. 

On  Mr. 's  making  inquiry  who  was  the  person 

they  had  been  burying,  one  of  them,  with  an  accent 
more  mournful  than  is  common  to  their  profession,  an- 
swered, — 

"  Then  you  knew  not  Mademoiselle,  sir  ?  You  nevel 
beheld  a  lovelier —  " 

"  La  Roche !  "  exclaimed  he  in  reply. 

"  Alas !  it  was  she  indeed." 

The  appearance  of  surprise  and  grief  which  his  counte- 
nance assumed  attracted  the  notice  of  the  peasant  with 

whom  he  talked.  He  came  up  closer  to  Mr. .  "  1 

8*  L 


178  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

perceive,  sir,  you  were  acquainted  with  Mademoiselle 
La  Roche." 

"  Acquainted  with  her !  —  Good  God !  —  when — how 
—  where  did  she  die  ?  Where  is  her  father  ? " 

"  She  died,  sir,  of  heart-break,  I  believe.  The  young 
gentleman  to  whom  she  was  soon  to  have  been  married 
was  killed  in  a  duel  by  a  French  officer,  his  intimate 
companion,  to  whom,  before  their  quarrel,  he  had  often 
done  the  greatest  favors.  Her  worthy  father  bears  her 
death  as  he  has  often  told  us  a  Christian  should ;  he  is 
even  so  composed  as  to  be  now  in  his  pulpit,  ready  to 
deliver  a  few  exhortations  to  his  parishioners,  as  is  the 
custom  with  us  on  such  occasions.  Follow  me,  sir,  and 
you  shall  hear  him." 

He  followed  the  man  without  answering. 

The  church  was  dimly  lighted,  except  near  the  pulpit, 
where  the  venerable  La  Roche  was  seated.  His  people 
were  now  lifting  up  their  voices  in  a  psalm  to  that  Being 
whom  their  pastor  had  taught  them  ever  to  bless  and  to 
revere.  La  Roche  sat,  his  figure  bending  gently  for- 
ward, his  eyes  half  closed,  lifted  up  in  silent  devotion. 
A  lamp  placed  near  him  threw  its  light  strong  on  his 
head,  and  marked  the  shadowy  lines  of  age  across  the 
paleness  of  his  brow,  thinly  covered  with  gray  hairs. 

The  music  ceased.  La  Roche  sat  for  a  moment,  and 
nature  wrung  a  few  tears  from  him.  His  people  were 

loud  in  their  grief :  Mr. was  not  less  affected  than 

they.  La  Roche  arose. 

"  Father  of  mercies  !  "  said  he,  "  forgive  these  tears ; 
assist  thy  servant  to  lift  up  his  soul  to  thee,  to  lift  to  thee 
the  souls  of  thy  people.  My  friends,  it  is  good  so  to  do ; 


THE  STORY  OF  LA  EOCHE.       179 

at  all  seasons  it  is  good ;  but  in  the  days  of  our  distress, 
•what  a  privilege  it  is !  Well  saith  the  sacred  book, 
'  Trust  in  the  Lord ;  at  all  times  trust  in  the  Lord ! ' 
When  every  other  support  fails  us,  when  the  fountains 
of  worldly  comfort  are  dried  up,  let  us  then  seek  those 
living  waters  which  flow  from  the  throne  of  God.  'T  is 
only  from  the  belief  of  the  goodness  and  wisdom  of  a 
Supreme  Being  that  our  calamities  can  be  borne  in  that 
manner  which  becomes  a  man.  Human  wisdom  is  here 
of  little  use ;  for,  in  proportion  as  it  bestows  comfort,  it 
represses  feeling,  without  which  we  may  cease  to  be  hurt 
by  calamity,  but  we  shall  also  cease  to  enjoy  happiness. 
I  will  not  bid  you  be  insensible,  my  friends.  I  cannot,  if 
I  would."  His  tears  flowed  afresh.  "  I  feel  too  much 
myself,  and  I  am  not  ashamed  of  my  feelings  ;  but  there- 
fore may  I  the  more  willingly  be  heard ;  therefore  have  I 
prayed  God  to  give  me  strength  to  speak  to  you,  to  di- 
rect you  to  him,  not  with  empty  words,  but  with  these 
tears,  not  from  speculation,  but  from  experience,  that 
while  you  see  me  suffer  you  may  know  also  my  consola- 
tion. You  behold  the  mourner  of  his  only  child,  the  last 
earthly  stay  and  blessing  of  his  declining  years.  Such  a 
child  too  !  It  becomes  not  me  to  speak  of  her  virtues ; 
yet  it  is  but  gratitude  to  mention  them,  because  they 
were  exerted  toward  myself.  Not  many  days  ago  you 
saw  her  young,  beautiful,  virtuous,  and  happy.  Ye  who 
are  parents  will  judge  of  my  felicity  then ;  ye  will  judge 
of  my  affliction  now.  But  I  look  toward  him  who  struck 
me  ;  I  see  the  hand  of  a  father  amidst  the  chastenings  of 
my  God.  Oh !  could  I  make  you  feel  what  it  is  to  pour 
out  the  heart,  when  it  is  pressed  down  with  many  sor- 


180  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

rows,  to  pour  it  out  with  confidence  to  him  in  whose 
hands  are  life  and  death,  on  whose  power  awaits  all 
that  the  first  enjoys,  and  in  contemplation  of  whom  dis- 
appears all  that  the  last  can  inflict.  For  we  are  not  as 
those  who  die  without  hope ;  we  know  that  our  Redeemer 
liveth,  —  that  we  shall  live  with  him,  with  our  friends, 
his  servants,  in  that  blessed  land  where  sorrow  is  un- 
known, and  happiness  is  endless  as  it  is  perfect.  Go, 
then,  mourn  not  for  me ;  I  have  not  lost  my  child ;  but  a 
little  while,  and  we  shall  meet  again,  never  to  be  sepa- 
rated. But  ye  are  also  my  children :  would  ye  that  I 
should  not  grieve  without  comfort  ?  So  live  as  she  lived, 
that,  when  your  death  cometh,  it  may  be  the  death  of  the 
righteous,  and  your  latter  end  like  his." 

Such  was  the  exhortation  of  La  Roche  :  his  audience 
answered  it  with  their  tears.  The  good  old  man  had 
dried  up  his  at  the  altar  of  the  Lord :  his  countenance 
had  lost  its  sadness  and  assumed  the  glow  of  faith  and 
hope.  Mr. followed  him  into  his  house.  The  in- 
spiration of  the  pulpit  was  past;  at  sight  of  him,  the 
scenes  they  had  last  met  in  rushed  again  on  his  mind ; 
La  Roche  threw  his  arms  around  his  neck,  and  watered 
it  with  his  tears.  The  other  was  equally  affected.  They 
went  together,  in  silence,  into  the  parlor,  where  the  even- 
ing service  was  wont  to  be  performed.  The  curtains  of 
the  organ  were  open ;  La  Roche  started  back  at  the 
sight. 

"  Oh  !  my  friend  !  "  said  he,  and  his  tears  burst  forth 
again. 

Mr. had  now  recollected  himself ;  he  stepped  for- 
ward, and  drew  the  curtains  close.  The  old  man  wiped 


THE    STORY   OP   LA   ROCHE.  181 

off  nis  tears,  and  taking  his  friend's  hand,  "  You  see  my 
weakness,"  said  he,  "  't  is  the  weakness  of  humanity ;  but 
my  comfort  is  not  therefore  lost." 

"  I  heard  you,"  said  the  other,  "  in  the  pulpit ;  I  re- 
joice that  such  consolation  is  yours." 

"  It  is,  my  friend,"  said  he ;  "  and  I  trust  I  shall  ever 
hold  it  fast.  If  there  are  any  who  doubt  our  faith,  let 
them  think  of  what  importance  religion  is  to  calamity,  and 
forbear  to  weaken  its  force.  If  they  cannot  restore  our 
happiness,  let  them  not  take  away  the  solace  of  our  af- 
fliction." 

Mr. 's  heart  was  smitten,  and  I  have  heard  him, 

long  after,  confess  that  there  were  moments  when  the 
remembrance  overcame  him  even  to  weakness;  when, 
amidst  all  the  pleasures  of  philosophical  discovery  and 
the  pride  of  literary  fame,  he  recalled  to  his  mind  the 
venerable  figure  of  the  good  La  Roche,  and  wished  that 
he  had  never  doubted. 


THE  VISION  OP  SUDDEN  DEATH. 

BY  THOMAS  DE  QTJINCEY. 

HAT  is  to  be  thought  of  sudden  death  ?  It  is 
remarkable  that,  in  different  conditions  of  so- 
ciety, it  has  been  variously  regarded  as  the  con- 
summation of  an  earthly  career  most  fervently  to  be 
desired,  and  on  the  other  hand,  as  that  consummation 
which  is  most  of  all  to  be  deprecated.  Caesar  the  Dic- 
tator, at  his  last  dinner-party  (ceena),  and  the  very  even- 
ing before  his  assassination,  being  questioned  as  to  the 
mode  of  death  which,  in  his  opinion,  might  seem  the  most 
eligible,  replied,  "  That  which  should  be  most  sudden." 
On  the  other  hand,  the  divine  Litany  of  our  English 
Church,  when  breathing  forth  supplications,  as  if  in  some 
representative  character  for  the  whole  human  race  pros- 
trate before  God,  places  such  a  death  in  the  very  van  of 
horrors.  "  From  lightning  and  tempest ;  from  plague, 
pestilence,  and  famine ;  from  battle  and  murder,  and 
from  sudden  death,  —  Good  Lord,  deliver  us."  Sudden 
death  is  here  made  to  crown  the  climax  in  a  grand  ascent 
of  calamities;  it  is  the  last  of  curses;  and  yet,  by  the 
noblest  of  Romans,  it  was  treated  as  the  first  of  blessings. 


THE    VISION   OF    SUDDEN    DEATH.  183 

In  that  difference,  most  readers  will  see  little  more  than 
the  difference  between  Christianity  and  Paganism.  But 
there  I  hesitate.  The  Christian  Church  may  be  right  in 
its  estimate  of  sudden  death ;  and  it  is  a  natural  feeling, 
though  after  all  il  may  also  be  an  infirm  one,  to  wish  for 
a  quiet  dismissal  from  life,  —  as  that  which  seems  most 
reconcilable  with  meditation,  with  penitential  retrospects, 
and  with  the  humilities  of  farewell  prayer.  There  does 
not,  however,  occur  to  me  any  direct  Scriptural  warrant 
for  this  earnest  petition  of  the  English  Litany.  It  seems 
rather  a  petition  indulged  to  human  infirmity,  than  ex- 
acted from  human  piety.  And,  however  that  may  be, 
two  remarks  suggest  themselves  as  prudent  restraints 
upon  a  doctrine,  which  else  may  wander,  and  has  wan- 
dered, into  an  uncharitable  superstition.  The  first  is 
this :  that  many  people  are  likely  to  exaggerate  the  hor- 
ror of  a  sudden  death  (I  mean  the  objective  horror  to 
him  who  contemplates  such  a  death,  not  the  subjective 
horror  to  him  who  suffers  it),  from  the  false  disposition 
to  lay  a  stress  upon  words  or  acts,  simply  because  by  an 
accident  they  have  become  words  or  acts.  If  a  man  dies, 
for  instance,  by  some  sudden  death  when  he  happens  to 
be  intoxicated,  such  a  death  is  falsely  regarded  with  pe- 
culiar horror;  as  though  the  intoxication  were  suddenly 
exalted  into  a  blasphemy.  But  that  is  unpliilosophic. 
The  man  was,  or  he  was  not,  habitually  a  drunkard.  If 
not,  if  his  intoxication  were  a  solitary  accident,  there  cau 
be  no  reason  at  all  for  allowing  special  emphasis  to  this 
act,  simply  because  through  misfortune  it  became  his 
final  act.  Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  if  it  were  no  accident, 
but  one  of  his  habitual  transgressions,  will  it  be  the  more 


184  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

habitual  or  the  more  a  transgression,  because  some  sud- 
den calamity,  surprising  him,  has  caused  this  habitual 
transgression  to  be  also  a  final  one  ?  Could  the  man 
have  had  any  reason  even  dimly  to  foresee  his  own  sud- 
den death,  there  would  have  been  a  new  feature  in  his 
act  of  intemperance,  —  a  feature  of  presumption  and  ir- 
reverence, as  in  one  that  by  possibility  felt  himself  draw- 
ing near  to  the  presence  of  God.  But  this  is  no  part  of 
the  case  supposed.  And  the  only  new  element  in  the 
man's  act  is  not  any  element  of  extra  immorality,  but 
simply  of  extra  misfortune. 

The  other  remark  has  reference  to  the  meaning  of  the 
word  sudden.  And  it  is  a  strong  illustration  of  the  duty 
which  forever  calls  us  to  the  stern  valuation  of  words, 
that  very  possibly  Csesar  and  the  Christian  Church  do 
not  differ  in  the  way  supposed ;  that  is,  do  not  differ  by 
any  difference  of  doctrine  as  between  Pagan  and  Christian 
views  of  the  moral  temper  appropriate  to  death,  but  that 
they  are  contemplating  different  cases.  Both  contem- 
plate a  violent  death,  a  EiaOavaros  —  death  that  is  Btaios : 
but  the  difference  is  that  the  Roman  by  the  word 
"  sudden "  means  an  unlingering  death :  whereas  the 
Christian  Litany  by  "  sudden "  means  a  death  without 
warning,  consequently  without  any  available  summons 
to  religious  preparation.  The  poor  mutineer,  who  kneels 
down  to  gather  into  his  heart  the  bullets  from  twelve 
firelocks  of  his  pitying  comrades,  dies  by  a  most  sudden 
death  in  Caesar's  sense  :  one  shock,  one  mighty  spasm, 
one  (possibly  not  one)  groan,  and  all  is  over.  But,  in 
the  sense  of  the  Litany,  his  death  is  far  from  sudden ; 
his  offence,  originally,  his  imprisonment,  his  trial,  the 


THE    VISION    OP    SUDDEN    DEATH.  185 

interval  between  his  sentence  and  its  execution,  having 
all  furnished  him  with  separate  warnings  of  his  fate,  — 
having  all  summoned  him  to  meet  it  with  solemn  prepa- 
ration. 

Meantime,  whatever  may  be  thought  of  a  sudden  death 
as  a  mere  variety  in  the  modes  of  dying,  where  death  in 
some  shape  is  inevitable,  —  a  question  which,  equally  in 
the  Roman  and  the  Christian  sense,  will  be  variously  an- 
swered according  to  each  man's  variety  of  temperament, 
—  certainly,  upon  one  aspect  of  sudden  death  there  can 
be  no  opening  for  doubt,  that  of  all  agonies  incident  to 
man  it  is  the  most  frightful,  that  of  all  martyrdoms  it  is 
the  most  freezing  to  human  sensibilities,  — namely,  where 
it  surprises  a  man  under  circumstances  which  offer  (or 
which  seem  to  offer)  some  hurried  and  inappreciable 
chance  of  evading  it.  Any  effort,  by  which  such  an 
evasion  can  be  accomplished,  must  be  as  sudden  as  the 
danger  which  it  affronts.  Even  that,  even  the  sickening 
necessity  for  hurrying  in  extremity  where  all  hurry  seems 
destined  to  be  vain,  self-baffled,  and  where  the  dreadful 
knell  of  too  late  is  already  sounding  in  the  ears  by  antici- 
pation, —  even  that  anguish  is  liable  to  a  hideous  exas- 
peration in  one  particular  case,  namely,  where  the 
agonizing  appeal  is  made  not  exclusively  to  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation,  but  to  the  conscience  on  behalf  of 
another  life  besides  your  own,  accidentally  cast  upon 
your  protection.  To  fail,  to  collapse  in  a  service  merely 
your  own,  might  seem  comparatively  venial ;  though,  in 
fact,  it  is  far  from  venial.  But  to  fail  in  a  case  where 
Providence  has  suddenly  thrown  into  your  hands  the 
interests  of  another,  —  of  a  fellow-creature  shud- 


186  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

dering  between  the  gates  of  life  and  death;  this,  to  a 
man  of  apprehensive  conscience,  would  mingle  the  misery 
of  an  atrocious  criminality  with  the  misery  of  a  bloody 
calamity.  The  man  is  called  upon,  too  probably,  to  die ; 
but  to  die  at  the  very  moment  when,  by  any  momentary 
collapse,  he  is  self-denounced  as  a  murderer.  He  had 
but  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  for  his  effort,  and  that  effort 
might,  at  the  best,  have  been  unavailing ;  but  from  this 
shadow  of  a  chance,  small  or  great,  how  if  he  has  recoiled 
by  a  treasonable  Idchete?  The  effort  might  have  been 

»/  *7 

•without  hope ;  but  to  have  risen  to  the  level  of  that  effort 
would  have  rescued  him,  though  not  from  dying,  yet 
from  dying  as  a  traitor  to  his  duties. 

The  situation  here  contemplated  exposes  a  dreadful 
ulcer  lurking  far  down  in  the  depths  of  human  nature. 
It  is  not  that  men  generally  are  summoned  to  face  such 
awful  trials.  But  potentially,  and  in  shadowy  outline, 
such  a  trial  is  moving  subterraneously  in  perhaps  all 
men's  natures,  —  muttering  under  ground  in  one  world, 
to  be  realized  perhaps  in  some  other.  Upon  the  secret 
mirror  of  our  dreams  such  a  trial  is  darkly  projected  at 
intervals,  perhaps,  to  every  one  of  us.  That  dream,  so 
familiar  to  childhood,  of  meeting  a  lion,  and,  from  lan- 
guishing prostration  in  hope  and  vital  energy,  that  con- 
stant sequel  of  lying  down  before  him,  publishes  the 
secret  frailty  of  human  nature,  —  reveals  its  deep-seated 
Pariah  falsehood  to  itself,  —  records  its  abysmal  treach- 
sry.  Perhaps  not  one  of  us  escapes  that  dream;  per- 
haps, as  by  some  sorrowful  doom  of  man,  that  dream 
repeats  for  every  one  of  us,  through  every  generation, 
the  original  temptation  in  Eden.  Every  one  of  us,  iu 


THE    VISION    OF    SUDDEN    DEATH.  187 

this  dream,  has  a  bait  offered  to  the  infirm  places  of  his 
own  individual  will ;  once  again  a  snare  is  made  ready 
for  leading  him  into  captivity  to  a  luxury  of  ruin ;  again, 
as  in  aboriginal  Paradise,  the  man  falls  from  innocence ; 
once  again,  by  infinite  iteration,  the  ancient  Earth  groans 
to  God,  through  her  secret  caves,  over  the  weakness  of 
her  child;  "Nature,  from  her  seat,  sighing  through  all 
her  works,"  again  "  gives  signs  of  woe  that  all  is  lost " ; 
and  again  the  countersign  is  repeated  to  the  sorrowing 
heavens  of  the  endless  rebellion  against  God.  Many 
people  think  that  one  man,  the  patriarch  of  our  race, 
could  not  in  his  single  person  execute  this  rebellion 
for  all  his  race.  Perhaps  they  are  wrong.  But,  even  if 
not,  perhaps  in  the  world  of  dreams  every  one  of  us  rati- 
fies for  himself  the  original  act.  Our  English  rite  of 
Confirmation,  by  which,  in  years  of  awakened  reason,  we 
take  upon  us  the  engagements  contracted  for  us  in  our 
slumbering  infancy,  —  how  sublime  a  rite  is  that !  The 
little  postern  gate,  through  which  the  baby  in  its  cradle 
had  been  silently  placed  for  a  time  within  the  glory  of 
God's  countenance,  suddenly  rises  to  the  clouds  as  a 
triumphal  arch,  through  which,  with  banners  displayed 
and  martial  pomps,  we  make  our  second  entry  as  crusad- 
ing soldiers  militant  for  God,  by  personal  choice  and  by 
sacramental  oath.  Each  man  says  in  effect,  "  Lo !  I 
rebaptize  myself;  and  that  which  once  was  sworn  on  my 
behalf,  now  I  swear  for  myself."  Even  so  in  dreams, 
perhaps,  under  some  secret  conflict  of  the  midnight 
sleeper,  lighted  up  to  the  consciousness  at  the  time,  but 
darkened  to  the  memory  as  soon  as  all  is  finished,  each 
several  child  of  our  mysterious  race  completes  for  him- 
self the  aboriginal  fall. 


188  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

As  I  drew  near  to  the  Manchester  post-office,  I  found 
that  it  was  considerably  past  midnight ;  but  to  my  great 
relief,  as  it  was  important  for  me  to  be  in  Westmoreland 
by  the  morning,  I  saw  by  the  huge  saucer  eyes  of  the 
mail,  blazing  through  the  gloom  of  overhanging  houses, 
that  my  chance  was  not  yet  lost.  Past  the  time  it  was ; 
but  by  some  luck,  very  unusual  in  my  experience,  the 
mail  was  not  even  yet  ready  to  start.  I  ascended  to  my 
seat  on  the  box,  where  my  cloak  was  still  lying  as  it  had 
lain  at  the  Bridgewater  Arms.  I  had  left  it  there  in 
imitation  of  a  nautical  discoverer,  who  leaves  a  bit  of 
bunting  on  the  shore  of  his  discovery,  by  way  of  warning 
off  the  ground  the  whole  human  race,  and  signalizing  to 
the  Christian  and  the  heathen  worlds,  with  his  best  com- 
pliments, that  he  has  planted  his  throne  forever  upon 
that  virgin  soil :  henceforward  claiming  the  jus  dominii 
to  the  top  of  the  atmosphere  above  it,  and  also  the  right 
of  driving  shafts  to  the  centre  of  the  earth  below  it ; 
so  that  all  people  found  after  this  warning,  either  aloft  in 
the  atmosphere,  or  in  the  shafts,  or  squatting  on  the  soil, 
will  be  treated  as  trespassers,  —  that  is,  decapitated  by 
their  very  faithful  and  obedient  servant,  the  owner  of 
the  said  bunting.  Possibly  my  cloak  might  not  have 
been  respected,  and  the  jus  gentium  might  have  been 
cruelly  violated  in  my  person,  — for  in  the  dark,  people 
commit  deeds  of  darkness,  gas  being  a  great  ally  of 
morality,  — but  it  so  happened  that,  on  this  night,  there 
was  no  other  outside  passenger ;  and  the  crime,  which 
else  was  but  too  probable,  missed  fire  for  want  of  a.  crim- 
inal. By  the  way,  I  may  as  well  mention  at  tin's  point, 
since  a  circumstantial  accuracy  is  essential  to  the  effect 


THE    VISION    OP    SUDDEN    DEATH.  189 

of  my  narrative,  that  there  was  no  other  person  of  any 
description  whatever  about  the  mail  —  the  guard,  the 
coachman,  and  myself  being  allowed  for  —  except  only 
one,  —  a  horrid  creature  of  the  class  known  to  the  world 
as  insiders,  but  whom  young  Oxford  called  sometimes 
"  Trojans,"  in  opposition  to  our  Grecian  selves,  and 
sometimes  "vermin."  A  Turkish  Effendi,  who  piques 
himself  on  good-breeding,  will  never  mention  by  name  a 
pig.  Yet  it  is  but  too  often  that  he  has  reason  to  men- 
tion this  animal ;  since  constantly,  in  the  streets  of 
Stamboul,  he  has  his  trousers  deranged  or  polluted  by 
this  vile  creature  running  between  his  legs.  But  under 
any  excess  of  hurry  he  is  always  careful,  out  of  respect 
to  the  company  he  is  dining  with,  to  suppress  the  odious 
name,  and  to  call  the  wretch  "  that  other  creature,"  as 
though  all  animal  life  beside  formed  one  group,  and  this 
odious  beast  (to  whom,  as  Chrysippus  observed,  salt 
serves  as  an  apology  for  a  soul)  formed  another  and  alien 
group  on  the  outside  of  creation.  Now  I,  who  am  an 
English  Effendi,  that  think  myself  to  understand  good- 
breeding  as  well  as  any  son  of  Othman,  beg  my  reader's 
pardon  for  having  mentioned  an  insider  by  his  gross  nat- 
ural name.  I  shall  do  so  no  more  ;  and,  if  I  should  have 
occasion  to  glance  at  so  painful  a  subject,  I  shall  always 
call  him  "  that  other  creature."  Let  us  hope,  however, 
that  no  such  distressing  occasion  will  arise.  But,  by  the 
way,  an  occasion  arises  at  this  moment ;  for  the  ,reader 
will  be  sure  to  ask,  when  we  come  to  the  story, "  Was 
this  other  creature  present  ?  "  He  was  not ;  or  more 
correctly,  perhaps,  it  was  not.  We  dropped  the  creature 
—  or  the  creature,  by  natural  imbecility,  dropped  itself — • 


190  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

within  the  first  ten  miles  from  Manchester.  In  the  latter 
case,  I  wish  to  make  a  philosophic  remark  of  a  moral 
tendency.  When  I  die,  or  when  the  reader  dies,  and  by 
repute  suppose  of  fever,  it  will  never  be  known  whether 
we  died  in  reality  of  the  fever  or  of  the  doctor.  But  this 
other  creature,  in  the  case  of  dropping  out  of  the  coach, 
will  enjoy  a  coroner's  inquest ;  consequently  he  will  en- 
joy an  epitaph.  For  I  insist  upon  it,  that  the  verdict  of 
a  coroner's  jury  makes  the  best  of  epitaphs.  It  is  brief, 
so  that  the  public  all  find  time  to  read ;  it  is  pithy,  so 
that  the  surviving  friends  (if  any  can  survive  such  a  loss) 
remember  it  without  fatigue ;  it  is  upon  oath,  so  that 
rascals  and  Dr.  Johnsons  cannot  pick  holes  in  it.  "  Died 
through  the  visitation  of  intense  stupidity,  by  impinging 
on  a  moonlight  night  against  the  off-hind  wheel  of  the 
Glasgow  mail !  Deodand  upon  the  said  wheel  —  two- 
pence." What  a  simple  lapidary  inscription  !  Nobody 
much  in  the  wrong  but  an  off-wheel ;  and  with  few  ac- 
quaintances ;  and  if  it  were  but  rendered  into  choice 
Latin,  though  there  would  be  a  little  bother  in  finding  a 
Ciceronian  word  for  "  off-wheel,"  Marcellus  himself,  that 
great  master  of  sepulchral  eloquence,  could  not  show  a 
better.  Why  I  call  this  little  remark  moral  is,  from 
the  compensation  it  points  out.  Here,  by  the  supposi- 
tion, is  that  other  creature  on  the  one  side,  the  beast  of 
the  world ;  and  he  (or  it)  gets  an  epitaph.  You  and  I, 
on  the  contrary,  the  pride  of  our  friends,  get  none. 

But  why  linger  on  the  subject  of  vermin  ?  Having 
mounted  the  box,  I  took  a  small  quantity  of  laudanum, 
having  already  travelled  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  — 
namely,  from  a  point  seventy  miles  beyond  London,  upon 


THE  VISION  OF  SUDDEN  DEATH.     191 

a  simple  breakfast.  In  the  taking  of  laudanum  there 
was  nothing  extraordinary.  But  by  accident  it  drew 
upon  me  the  special  attention  of  my  assessor  on  the  box, 
the  coachman.  And  in  that  there  was  nothing  extraordi- 
nary. But  by  accident,  and  with  great  delight,  it  drew 
my  attention  to  the  fact  that  this  coachman  was  a  mon- 
ster in  point  of  size,  and  that  he  had  but  one  eye.  In 
fact,  he  had  been  foretold  by  Virgil  as  — 

"Monstrum  horrendum,  informe,  ingens  cui  lumen  ademptum." 

He  answered  in  every  point,  —  a  monster  he  was,  — 
dreadful,  shapeless,  huge,  who  had  lost  an  eye.  But 
why  should  that  delight  me  ?  Had  he  been  one  of  the 
Calendars  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  had  paid  down  his 
eye  as  the  price  of  his  criminal  curiosity,  what  right  had 
J  to  exult  in  his  misfortune  ?  I  did  not  exult ;  I  delight- 
ed in  no  man's  punishment,  though  it  were  even  mer- 
ited. But  these  personal  distinctions  identified  in  an 
instant  an  old  friend  of  mine,  whom  I  had  known  in  the 
South  for  some  years  as  the  most  masterly  of  mail-coach- 
men. He  was  the  man  in  all  Europe  that  could  best 
have  undertaken  to  drive  six -in-hand  full  gallop  over  Al 
Sirat,  —  that  famous  bridge  of  Mahomet  across  the  bot- 
tomless gulf,  —  backing  himself  against  the  Prophet  and 
twenty  such  fellows.  I  used  to  call  him  Cyclops  mastigo- 
phorus,  Cyclops  the  whip-bearer,  until  I  observed  that  his 
skill  made  whips  useless,  except  to  fetch  off  an  imperti- 
nent fly  from  a  leader's  head  ;  upon  which  I  changed  his 
Grecian  name  to  Cyclops  diphrelates  (Cyclops  the  char- 
ioteer). I,  and  others  known  to  me,  studied  under  him 
the  diphrelatic  art.  Excuse,  reader,  a  word  too  elegant 


192  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

to  be  pedantic.  And  also  take  this  remark  from  me; 
as  a  gage  d'amitie,  that  no  word  ever  was  or  can  be 
pedantic  which,  by  supporting  a  distinction,  supports  the 
accuracy  of  logic  ;  or  winch  fills  up  a  chasm  for  the  un- 
derstanding. As  a  pupil,  though  I  paid  extra  fees,  I 
cannot  say  that  I  stood  high  in  his  esteem.  It  showed 
his  dogged  honesty  (though,  observe,  not  his  discern- 
ment), that  he  could  not  see  my  merits.  Perhaps  we 
ought  to  excuse  his  absurdity  in  this  particular  by  re- 
membering his  want  of  an  eye.  That  made  him  blind  to 
my  merits.  Irritating  as  this  blindness  was  (surely  it 
could  not  be  envy  !)  he  always  courted  my  conversation, 
in  which  art  I  certainly  had  the  whip-hand  of  him.  On 
this  occasion,  great  joy  was  at  our  meeting.  But  what 
was  Cyclops  doing  here  ?  Had  the  medical  men  recom- 
mended northern  air,  or  how  ?  I  collected,  from  such 
explanations  as  he  volunteered,  that  he  had  an  interest 
at  stake  in  a  suit-at-law  pending  at  Lancaster ;  so  that 
probably  he  had  got  himself  transferred  to  this  station, 
for  the  purpose  of  connecting  with  his  professional  pur- 
suits an  instant  readiness  for  the  calls  of  his  lawsuit. 

Meantime,  what  are  we  stopping  for  ?  Surely,  we  've 
been  waiting  long  enough.  O,  this  procrastinating  mail, 
and  0,  this  procrastinating  post-office  !  Can't  they  take 
a  lesson  upon  that  subject  from  me  ?  Some  people  have 
called  me  procrastinating.  Now  you  are  witness,  reader, 
that  I  was  in  time  for  them.  But  can  they  lay  their 
hands  on  their  hearts,  and  say  that  they  were  in  time  for 
me  ?  I,  during  my  life,  have  often  had  to  wait  for  the 
post-office ;  the  post-office  never  waited  a  minute  for  me. 
What  are  they  about  P  The  guard  tells  me  that  there  in 


THE  VISION  OF  SUDDEN  DEATH.     193 

a  large  extra  accumulation  of  foreign  mails  this  night,  ow- 
ing to  irregularities  caused  by  war  and  by  the  packet  ser- 
vice, when  as  yet  nothing  is  done  by  steam.  Tor  an  extra 
hour,  it  seems,  the  post-office  has  been  engaged  in 
threshing  out  the  pure  wheaten  correspondence  of  Glas- 
gow, and  winnowing  it  from  the  chaff  of  all  baser  inter- 
mediate towns.  We  can  hear  the  flails  going  at  this 
moment.  But  at  last  all  is  finished.  Sound  your  horn, 
guard.  Manchester,  good  by ;  we  've  lost  an  hour  by 
your  criminal  conduct  at  the  post-office  ;  which,  however, 
though  I  do  not  mean  to  part  with  a  serviceable  ground 
of  complaint,  and  one  which  really  is  such  for  the  horses, 
to  me  secretly  is  an  advantage,  since  it  compels  us  to  re- 
cover this  last  hour  amongst  the  next  eight  or  nine.  OS 
we  are  at  last,  and  at  eleven  miles  an  hour ;  and  at  first 
I  detect  no  changes  in  the  energy  or  in  the  skill  of  Cy- 
clops. 

From  Manchester  to  Kendal,  which  virtually  (though 
not  in  law)  is  the  capital  of  Westmoreland,  were  at  this 
time  seven  stages  of  eleven  miles  each.  The  first  five  of 
these,  dated  from  Manchester,  terminated  in  Lancaster, 
which  was  therefore  fifty-five  miles  north  of  Manchester, 
and  the  same  distance  exactly  from  Liverpool.  The  first 
three  terminated  in  Preston  (called,  by  way  of  distinction 
from  other  towns  of  that  name,  proud  Preston),  at  which 
place  it  was  that  the  separate  roads  from  Liverpool  and 
from  Manchester  to  the  north  became  confluent.  Within 
these  first  three  stages  lay  the  foundation,  the  progress, 
and  termination  of  our  night's  adventure.  During  the 
first  stage,  I  found  out  that  Cyclops  was  mortal :  he  was 
liable  to  the  shocking  affection  of  sleep,  —  a  thing  which 


194  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

I  had  never  previously  suspected.  If  a  man  is  addicted 
to  the  vicious  habit  of  sleeping,  all  the  skill  in  aurigation 
of  Apollo  himself,  with  the  horses  of  Aurora  to  execute 
the  motions  of  his  will,  avail  him  nothing.  "O  Cy- 
clops ! "  I  exclaimed  more  than  once,  "  Cyclops,  my 
friend ;  thou  art  mortal.  Thou  snorest."  Through  this 
first  eleven  miles,  however,  he  betrayed  his  infirmity  — 
which  I  grieve  to  say  he  shared  with  the  whole  Pagan 
Pantheon  —  only  by  short  stretches.  On  waking  up,  he 
made  an  apology  for  himself,  which,  instead  of  mending 
the  matter,  laid  an  ominous  foundation  for  coming  disas- 
ters. The  summer  assizes  were  now  proceeding  at  Lan- 
caster: in  consequence  of  which,  for  three  nights  and 
three  days,  he  had  not  lain  down  in  a  bed.  During  the 
day,  he  was  waiting  for  his  uncertain  summons  as  a  wit- 
ness on  the  trial  in  which  he  was  interested ;  or  he  was 
drinking  with  the  other  witnesses,  under  the  vigilant  sur- 
veillance of  the  attorneys.  During  the  night,  or  that  part 
of  it  when  the  least  temptations  existed  to  conviviality, 
he  was  driving.  Throughout  the  second  stage  he  grew 
more  and  more  drowsy.  In  the  second  mile  of  the  third 
stage,  he  surrendered  himself  finally  and  without  a  strug- 
gle to  his  perilous  temptation.  All  his  past  resistance 
had  but  deepened  the  weight  of  this  final  oppression. 
Seven  atmospheres  of  sleep  seemed  resting  upon  him; 
and  to  consummate  the  case,  our  worthy  guard,  after 
singing  "  Love  amongst  the  Roses  "  for  the  fiftieth  or 
sixtieth  time,  without  any  invitation  from  Cyclops  or  me, 
and  without  applause  for  his  poor  labors,  had  moodily 
resigned  himself  to  slumber,  —  not  so  deep  doubtless  as 
the  coachman's,  but  deep  enough  for  mischief,  and  hav- 


THE    VISION    OF    SUDDEN    DEATH.  195 

ing,  probably,  no  similar  excuse.  And  thus  at  last,  about 
ten  miles  from  Preston,  I  found  myself  left  in  charge  of 
his  Majesty's  London  and  Glasgow  mail,  then  running 
about  eleven  miles  an  hour. 

What  made  this  negligence  less  criminal  than  else  it 
must  have  been  thought,  was  the  condition  of  the  roads 
at  night  during  the  assizes.  At  that  time  all  the  law 
business  of  populous  Liverpool,  and  of  populous  Man- 
chester, with  its  vast  cincture  of  populous  rural  districts, 
was  called  up  by  ancient  usage  to  the  tribunal  of  Lillipu- 
tian Lancaster.  To  break  up  this  old  traditional  usage 
required  a  conflict  with  powerful  established  interests,  a 
large  system  of  new  arrangements,  and  a  new  parliament- 
ary statute.  As  things  were  at  present,  twice  in  the  year 
so  vast  a  body  of  business  rolled  northwards,  from  the 
southern  quarter  of  the  county,  that  a  fortnight  at  least 
occupied  the  severe  exertions  of  two  judges  for  its  de- 
spatch. The  consequence  of  this  was,  that  every  horse 
available  for  such  a  service,  along  the  whole  line  of  road, 
was  exhausted  in  carrying  down  the  multitudes  of  people 
who  were  parties  to  the  different  suits.  By  sunset,  there- 
fore, it  usually  happened  that,  through  utter  exhaustion 
amongst  men  and  horses,  the  roads  were  all  silent.  Ex- 
cept exhaustion  in  the  vast  adjacent  county  of  York  from 
a  contested  election,  nothing  like  it  was  ordinarily  wit- 
nessed in  England. 

On  this  occasion,  the  usual  silence  and  solitude  pre- 
vailed along  the  road.  Not  a  hoof  nor  a  wheel  was  to 
be  heard.  And  to  strengthen  this  false  luxurious  confi- 
dence in  the  noiseless  roads,  it  happened  also  that  the 
night  was  one  of  peculiar  solemnity  and  peace.  I  myself. 


196  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

though  slightly  alive  to  the  possibilities  of  peril,  had  so 
far  yielded  to  the  influence  of  the  mighty  calm  as  to  sink 
into  a  profound  revery.  The  month  was  August,  in 
which  lay  my  own  birthday ;  a  festival,  to  every  thought- 
ful man,  suggesting  solemn  and  often  sigh-born  thoughts. 
The  county  was  my  own  native  county,  —  upon  which, 
in.  its  southern  section,  more  than  upon  any  equal  area 
known  to  man  past  or  present,  had  descended  the  original 
curse  of  labor  in  its  heaviest  form,  not  mastering  the 
bodies  of  men  only  as  slaves,  or  criminals  in  mines,  but 
working  through  the  fiery  will.  Upon  no  equal  space  of 
earth  was,  or  ever  had  been,  the  same  energy  of  human 
power  put  forth  daily.  At  this  particular  season  also  of 
the  assizes,  that  dreadful  hurricane  of  flight  and  pursuit, 
as  it  might  have  seemed  to  a  stranger,  that  swept  to  and 
from  Lancaster  all  day  long,  hunting  the  county  up  and 
down,  and  regularly  subsiding  about  sunset,  united  with 
the  permanent  distinction  of  Lancashire  as  the  very  me- 
tropolis and  citadel  of  labor,  to  point  the  thoughts  pa- 
thetically upon  that  counter-vision  of  rest,  of  saintly 
repose  from  strife  and  sorrow,  towards  which,  as  to  their 
secret  haven,  the  profounder  aspirations  of  man's  heart 
are  continually  travelling.  Obliquely  we  were  nearing 
the  sea  upon  our  left,  which  also  must,  under  the  present 
circumstances,  be  repeating  the  general  state  of  halcyon 
repose.  The  sea,  the  atmosphere,  the  light,  bore  an  or- 
chestral part  in  this  universal  lull.  Moonlight  and  the 
first  timid  tremblings  of  the  dawn  were  now  blending ; 
and  the  blendings  were  brought  into  a  still  more  exquisite 
state  of  unity  by  a  slight  silvery  mist,  motionless  and 
dreamy,  that  covered  the  woods  and  fields,  but  with  a 


THE  VISION  OP  SUDDEN  DEATH.     197 

veil  of  equable  transparency.  Except  the  feet  of  our  own 
horses,  which,  running  on  a  sandy  margin  of  the  road, 
made  little  disturbance,  there  was  no  sound  abroad.  In 
the  clouds  and  on  the  earth  prevailed  the  same  majestic 
peace ;  and  in  spite  of  all  that  the  villain  of  a  school- 
master has  done  for  the  ruin  of  our  sublimer  thoughts, 
which  are  the  thoughts  of  our  infancy,  we  still  believe  in 
no  such  nonsense  as  a  limited  atmosphere.  Whatever 
we  may  swear  with  our  false  feigning  lips,  in  our  faithful 
hearts  we  still  believe,  and  must  forever  believe,  in  fields 
of  air  traversing  the  total  gulf  between  earth  and  the 
central  heavens.  Still,  in  the  confidence  of  children  that 
tread  without  fear  every  chamber  in  their  father's  house, 
and  to  whom  no  door  is  closed,  we,  in  that  Sabbatic  vis- 
ion which  sometimes  is  revealed  for  an  hour  upon  nights 
like  this,  ascend  with  easy  steps  from  the  sorrow-stricken 
fields  of  earth  upwards  to  the  sandals  of  God. 

Suddenly  from  thoughts  like  these  I  was  awakened  to 
a  sullen  sound,  as  of  some  motion  on  the  distant  road. 
It  stole  upon  the  air  for  a  moment ;  I  listened  in  awe ; 
but  then  it  died  away.  Once  roused,  however,  I  could 
not  but  observe  with  alarm  the  quickened  motion  of  our 
horses.  Ten  years'  experience  had  made  my  eye  learned 
in  the  valuing  of  motion ;  and  I  saw  that  we  were  now 
running  thirteen  miles  an  hour.  I  pretend  to  no  presence 
of  mind.  On  the  contrary,  my  fear  is,  that  I  am  miserably 
and  shamefully  deficient  in  that  quality  as  regards  action. 
The  palsy  of  doubt  and  distraction  hangs  like  some  guilty 
weight  of  dark  unfathomed  remembrances  upon  my  ener- 
gies, when  the  signal  is  flying  for  action.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  this  accursed  gift  I  have,  as  regards  thought, 


198  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

that  in  the  first  step  towards  the  possibility  of  a  misfor. 
tune,  I  see  its  total  evolution ;  in  the  radix  I  see  too 
certainly  and  too  instantly  its  entire  expansion;  in  the 
first  syllable  of  the  dreadful  sentence,  I  read  already  the 
last.  It  was  not  that  I  feared  for  ourselves.  What 
could  injure  us?  Our  bulk  and  impetus  charmed  us 
against  peril  in  any  collision.  And  I  had  rode  through 
too  many  hundreds  of  perils  that  were  frightful  to  ap- 
proach, that  were  matter  of  laughter  as  we  looked  back 
upoh  them,  for  any  anxiety  to  rest  upon  our  interests. 
The  mail  was  not  built.  I  felt  assured,  nor  bespoke,  that 
could  betray  me  who  trusted  to  its  protection.  But  any 
carriage  that  we  could  meet  would  be  frail  and  light  in 
comparison  of  ourselves.  And  I  remarked  this  ominous 
accident  of  our  situation.  We  were  on  the  wrong  side 
of  the  road.  But  then  the  other  party,  if  other  there 
was,  might  also  be  on  the  wrong  side ;  and  two  wrongs 
might  make  a  right.  That  was  not  likely.  The  same 
motive  which  had  drawn  us  to  the  right-hand  side  of  the 
road,  namely,  the  soft  beaten  sand,  as  contrasted  with 
the  paved  centre,  would  prove  attractive  to  others.  Our 
lamps,  still  lighted,  would  give  the  impression  of  vigilance 
on  our  part.  And  every  creature  that  met  us  would  rely 
upon  us  for  quartering.  All  this,  and  if  the  separate 
links  of  the  anticipation  had  been  a  thousand  times  more, 
I  saw,  not  discursively  or  by  effort,  but  as  by  one  flash 
of  horrid  intuition. 

Under  this  steady  though  rapid  anticipation  of  the  evil 
which  might  be  gathering  ahead,  ah,  reader !  what  a  sul- 
len mystery  of  fear,  what  a  sigh  of  woe,  seemed  to  steal 
upon  the  air,  as  again  the  far-off  sound  of  a  wheel  was 


THE    VISION    OF    SUDDEN    DEATH.  199 

heard!  A  whisper  it  was,  —  a  whisper  from,  perhaps, 
four  miles  off,  —  secretly  announcing  a  ruin  that,  being 
foreseen,  was  not  the  less  inevitable.  What  could  be 
done  —  who  was  it  that  could  do  it  —  to  check  the  storm- 
flight  of  these  maniacal  horses  ?  What !  could  I  not 
seize  the  reins  from  the  grasp  of  the  slumbering  coach- 
man? You,  reader,  think  that  it  would  have  been  in 
your  power  to  do  so.  And  I  quarrel  not  with  your  esti- 
mate of  yourself.  But,  from  the  way  in  which  the  coach- 
man's hand  was  viced  between  his  upper  and  lower  thigh, 
this  was  impossible.  The  guard  subsequently  found  it 
impossible,  after  this  danger  had  passed.  Not  the  grasp 
only,  but  also  the  position  of  this  Polyphemus,  made  the 
attempt  impossible.  You  still  think  otherwise.  See, 
then,  that  bronze  equestrian  statue.  The  cruel  rider 
has  kept  the  bit  in  his  horse's  mouth  for  two  centuries. 
Unbridle  him,  for  a  minute,  if  you  please,  and  wash  his 
mouth  with  water.  Or  stay,  reader,  unhorse  me  that 
marble  emperor :  knock  me  those  marble  feet  from  those 
marble  stirrups  of  Charlemagne. 

The  sounds  ahead  strengthened,  and  were  now  too 
clearly  the  sounds  of  wheels.  Who  and  what  could  it 
be  ?  Was  it  industry  in  a  taxed  cart  ?  Was  it  youthful 
gayety  in  a  gig  ?  Whoever  it  was,  something  must  be 
attempted  to  warn  them.  Upon  the  other  party  rests 
the  active  responsibility,  but  upon  us  —  and,  woe  is 
me !  that  us  was  my  single  self — rests  the  responsibility 
of  warning.  Yet,  how  should  this  be  accomplished  ? 
Might  I  not  seize  the  guard's  horn?  Already,  on  the 
first  thought,  I  was  making  my  way  over  the  roof  to  the 
guard's  seat.  But  this,  from  the  foreign  mail's  being 


200  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

piled  upon  the  roof,  was  a  difficult  and  even  dangerous 
attempt,  to  one  cramped  by  nearly  three  hundred  miles 
of  outside  travelling.  And,  fortunately,  before  I  had  lost 
much  time  in  the  attempt,  our  frantic  horses  swept 
round  an  angle  of  the  road,  which  opened  upon  us  the 
stage  where  the  collision  must  be  accomplished,  the  par- 
ties that  seemed  summoned  to  the  trial,  and  the  impossi- 
bility of  saving  them  by  any  communication  with  the 
guard. 

Before  us  lay  an  avenue,  straight  as  an  arrow,  six  hun- 
dred yards,  perhaps,  in  length ;  and  the  umbrageous 
trees,  which  rose  in  a  regular  line  from  either  side,  meet- 
ing high  overhead,  gave  to  it  the  character  of  a  cathedral 
aisle.  These  trees  lent  a  deeper  solemnity  to  the  early 
light ;  but  there  was  still  light  enough  to  perceive,  at  the 
farther  end  of  this  Gothic  aisle,  a  light,  reedy  gig,  in 
which  were  seated  a  young  man,  and,  by  his  side,  a 
young  lady.  Ah,  young  sir !  what  are  you  about  ?  If 
it  is  necessary  that  you  should  whisper  your  communi- 
cations to  this  young  lady, —  though  really  I  see  nobody 
at  this  hour,  and  on  this  solitary  road,  likely  to  overhear 
your  conversation,  —  is  it,  therefore,  necessary  that  you 
should  carry  your  lips  forward  to  hers  ?  The  little  car- 
riage is  creeping  on  at  one  mile  an  hour ;  and  the  parties 
within  it,  being  thus  tenderly  engaged,  are  naturally 
bending  down  their  heads.  Between  them  and  eternity, 
to  all  human  calculation,  there  is  but  a  minute  and  a 
half.  What  is  it  that  I  shall  do  ?  Strange  it  is,  and,  to 
a  mere  auditor  of  the  tale,  might  seem  laughable,  that  I 
should  need  a  suggestion  from  the  Iliad  to  prompt  the 
sole  recourse  that  remained.  But  so  it  was.  Suddenly 


THE  VISION  OF  SUDDEN  DEATH.     201 

I  remembered  the  shout  of  Achilles,  and  its  effect.  But 
could  I  pretend  to  shout  like  the  son  of  Peleus,  aided  by 
Pallas  ?  No,  certainly :  but  then  I  needed  not  the  shout 
that  should  alarm  all  Asia  militant ;  a  shout  would  suf- 
fice, such  as  should  carry  terror  into  the  hearts  of  two 
thoughtless  young  people,  and  one  gig  horse.  I  shouted, 
—  and  the  young  man  heard  me  not.  A  second  time  I 
shouted,  —  and  now  he  heard  me,  for  now  he  raised  his 
head. 

Here,  then,  all  had  been  done  that,  by  me,  could  be 
done :  more  on  my  part  was  not  possible.  Mine  had 
been  the  first  step  :  the  second  was  for  the  young  man : 
the  third  was  for  God.  If,  said  I,  the  stranger  is  a  brave 
man,  and  if,  indeed,  he  loves  the  young  girl  at  his  side,  — 
or,  loving  her  not,  if  he  feels  the  obligation  pressing 
upon  every  man  worthy  to  be  called  a  man,  of  doing  his 
utmost  for  a  woman  confided  to  his  protection,  —  he  will 
at  least  make  some  effort  to  save  her.  If  that  fails,  he 
will  not  perish  the  more,  or  by  a  death  more  cruel,  for 
having  made  it ;  and  he  will  die  as  a  brave  man  should, 
with  his  face  to  the  danger,  and  with  his  arm  about  the 
woman  that  he  sought  in  vain  to  save.  But  if  he  makes 
no  effort,  shrinking,  without  a  struggle,  from  his  duty, 
he  himself  will  not  the  less  certainly  perish  for  this  base- 
ness of  poltroonery.  He  will  die  no  less  :  and  why  not  ? 
Wherefore  should  we  grieve  that  there  is  one  craven  less 
in  the  world?  No;  let  him  perish,  without  a  pitying 
thought  of  ours  wasted  upon  him  ;  and,  in  that  case,  all 
our  grief  will  be  reserved  for  the  fate  of  the  helpless  girl, 
who  now,  upon  the  least  shadow  of  failure  in  him,  must, 
by  the  fiercest  of  translations,  —  must,  without  time  for 
9» 


202  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

a  prayer,  —  must,  within  seventy  seconds,  stand  before 
the  judgment-seat  of  God. 

But  craven  he  was  not :  sudden  had  been  the  call  upon 
him,  and  sudden  was  his  answer  to  the  call.  He  saw, 
he  heard,  he  comprehended,  the  ruin  that  was  coming 
down  :  already  its  gloomy  shadow  darkened  above  him ; 
and  already  he  was  measuring  his  strength  to  deal  with 
it.  Ah !  what  a  vulgar  thing  does  courage  seem,  when 
we  see  nations  buying  it  and  selling  it  for  a  shilling  a 
day  :  ah !  what  a  sublime  thing  does  courage  seem,  when 
some  fearful  crisis  on  the  great  deeps  of  life  carries  a 
man,  as  if  running  before  a  hurricane,  up  to  the  giddy 
crest  of  some  mountainous  wave,  from  which,  accordingly 
as  he  chooses  his  course,  he  describes  two  courses,  and  a 
voice  says  to  him  audibly,  "  This  way  lies  hope ;  take  the 
other  way  and  mourn  forever  !  "  Yet,  even  then,  amidst 
the  raving  of  the  seas  and  the  frenzy  of  the  danger,  the 
man  is  able  to  confront  his  situation,  —  is  able  to  retire 
for  a  moment  into  solitude  with  God,  and  to  seek  all  his 
counsel  from  him  !  For  seven  seconds,  it  might  be,  of 
his  seventy,  the  stranger  settled  his  countenance  stead- 
fastly upon  us,  as  if  to  search  and  value  every  element  in 
the  conflict  before  him.  For  five  seconds  more  he  sat 
immovably,  like  one  that  mused  on  some  great  purpose. 
For  five  he  sat  with  eyes  upraised,  like  one  that  prayed 
in  sorrow,  under  some  extremity  of  doubt,  for  wisdom  to 
guide  him  towards  the  better  choice.  Then  suddenly  he 
rose  ;  stood  upright ;  and,  by  a  sudden  strain  upon  the 
reins,  raising  his  horse's  forefeet  from  the  ground,  he 
slewed  him  round  on  the  pivot  of  his  hind  legs,  so  as  to 
plant  the  little  equipage  in  a  position  nearly  at  right  an- 


THE    VISION   OF   SUDDEN    DEATH.          208 

gles  to  ours.  Thus  far  his  condition  was  not  improved ; 
except  as  a  first  step  had  been  taken  towards  the  possi- 
bility of  a  second.  If  no  more  were  done,  nothing  was 
done ;  for  the  little  carriage  still  occupied  the  very  cen- 
tre of  our  path,  though  in  an  altered  direction.  Yet 
even  now  it  may  not  be  too  late :  fifteen  of  the  twenty 
seconds  may  still  be  unexhausted ;  and  one  almighty 
bound  forward  may  avail  to  clear  the  ground.  Hurry 
then,  hurry !  for  the  flying  moments  —  they  hurry !  O, 
hurry,  hurry,  my  brave  young  man !  for  the  cruel  hoofs 
of  our  horses  —  they  also  hurry !  Fast  are  the  flying 
moments,  faster  are  the  hoofs  of  our  horses.  Fear  not 
for  him,  if  human  energy  can  suffice :  faithful  was  he 
that  drove,  to  his  terrific  duty ;  faithful  was  the  horse  to 
his  command.  One  blow,  one  impulse  given  with  voice 
and  hand  by  the  stranger,  one  rush  from  the  horse,  one 
bound  as  if  in  the  act  of  rising  to  a  fence,  landed  the 
docile  creature's  forefeet  upon  the  crown  or  arching  cen- 
tre of  the  road.  The  larger  half  of  the  little  equipage 
had  then  cleared  our  over-towering  shadow :  that  was 
evident  even  to  my  own  agitated  sight.  But  it  mattered 
little  that  one  wreck  should  float  off  in  safety,  if  upon  the 
wreck  that  perished  were  embarked  the  human  freight- 
age. The  rear  part  of  the  carriage  —  was  that  certainly 
beyond  the  line  of  absolute  ruin?  What  power  could 
answer  the  question  ?  Glance  of  eye,  thought  of  man, 
wing  of  angel,  which  of  these  had  speed  enough  to  sweep 
between  the  question  and  the  answer,  and  divide  the  one 
from  the  other  ?  Light  does  not  tread  upon  the  steps 
of  light  more  indivisibly,  than  did  our  all-conquering 
arrival  upon  the  escaping  efforts  of  the  gig.  That  must 


204  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

the  young  man  have  felt  too  plainly.  His  back  was  now 
turned  to  us  ;  not  by  sight  could  he  auy  longer  commu- 
nicate with  the  peril ;  but  by  the  dreadful  rattle  of  our 
harness,  too  truly  had  his  ear  been  instructed,  —  that  all 
was  finished  as  regarded  any  further  effort  of  his.  Al- 
ready in  resignation  he  had  rested  from  his  struggle ; 
and  perhaps  in  his  heart  he  was  whispering,  "  Father, 
which  art  above,  do  thou  finish  in  heaven  what  I  on 
earth  have  attempted."  We  ran  past  them  faster  than 
ever  mill-race  in  our  inexorable  flight.  O,  raving  of 
hurricanes  that  must  have  sounded  in  their  young  ears  at 
the  moment  of  our  transit !  Either  with  the  swingle-bar, 
or  with  the  haunch  of  our  near  leader,  we  had  struck  the 
off-wheel  of  the  little  gig,  which  stood  rather  obliquely 
and  not  quite  so  far  advanced  as  to  be  accurately  parallel 
with  the  near  wheel.  The  blow,  from  the  fury  of  our 
passage,  resounded  terrifically.  I  rose  in  horror,  to  look 
upon  the  ruins  we  might  have  caused.  From  my  ele- 
vated station  I  looked  down,  and  looked  back  upon  the 
scene,  which  in  a  moment  told  its  tale,  and  wrote  all  its 
records  on  my  heart  forever. 

The  horse  was  planted  immovably,  with  his  forefeet 
upon  the  paved  crest  of  the  central  road.  He  of  the 
whole  party  was  alone  untouched  by  the  passion  of  death. 
The  little  cany  carriage,  —  partly  perhaps  from  the  dread- 
ful torsion  of  the  wheels  in  its  recent  movement,  partly 
from  the  thundering  blow  we  had  given  to  it,  —  as  if  it 
sympathized  with  human  horror,  was  all  alive  with 
tremblings  and  shiverings.  The  young  man  sat  like  a 
rock.  He  stirred  not  at  all.  But  his  was  the  steadiness 
of  agitation  frozen  into  rest  by  horror.  As  yet  he  dared 


THE  VISION  OP  SUDDEN  DEATH.     205 

not  to  look  round ;  for  he  knew  that  if  anything  remained 
to  do,  by  him  it  could  no  longer  be  done.  And  as  yet  he 
knew  not  for  certain  if  their  safety  were  accomplished. 
But  the  lady  — 

But  the  lady,  —  O  heavens !  will  that  spectacle  ever 
depart  from  my  dreams,  as  she  rose  and  sank  upon  her 
seat,  sank  and  rose,  threw  up  her  arms  wildly  to  heaven, 
clutched  at  some  visionary  object  in  the  air,  fainting, 
praying,  raving,  despairing !  Figure  to  yourself,  reader, 
the  elements  of  the  case ;  suffer  me  to  recall  before  your 
mind  the  circumstances  of  the  unparalleled  situation. 
From  the  silence  and  deep  peace  of  this  saintly  summer 
night,  —  from  the  pathetic  blending  of  this  sweet  moon- 
light, dawnlight,  dreamlight, — from  the  manly  tender- 
ness of  this  flattering,  whispering,  murmuring  love,  — 
suddenly  as  from  the  woods  and  fields,  —  suddenly  as 
from  the  chambers  of  the  air  opening  in  revelation,  — 
suddenly  as  from  the  ground  yawning  at  her  feet,  leaped 
upon  her,  with  the  flashing  of  cataracts,  Death  the 
crowned  phantom,  with  all  the  equipage  of  his  terrors, 
and  the  tiger  roar  of  his  voice. 

The  moments  were  numbered.  In  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye  our  flying  horses  had  carried  us  to  the  termination 
of  the  umbrageous  aisle ;  at  right  angles  we  wheeled  into 
our  former  direction ;  the  turn  of  the  road  carried  the 
scene  out  of  my  eyes  in  an  instant,  and  swept  it  into  my 
dreams  forever. 


A     000  046  725 


